"PS 3009 



w^- ^^!k-^- 




"X-^^T" 




AND OTHER POEMS 



« ».^c^._^' 



>i BY EPHRAIM TERRY. 3iw 



\ 



OUR 



PUMPKIN VINE 



AND OTHER 



i^ o E :]yL s . 



By EPHRAIM TERRY. 



. WAV 23 IgSSj 



NEW YORK: 

EPHRAIM TERRY. 



COPYRIGHT, 1883, »V EPHRAIM TERRV. 



J'O 30*1 



- ^- 



A KEY 

TO 

OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

*• Our Pumpkin vine " — "National and Universal." 

" The Pumpkin. " — Its blossom, odor, Arctic, tlie embodiment 
of cold, and the like — sectional North. 

Tar, pitch, turpentine, pine knots, and the like — the embodi 
ment of heat — sectional. South. 

Nation, Centralization — unlimited. 



INTRODUCTION. 



'r^mii '^^"^ *^^^ i\iQG^ Pumpkingdom, my pride, 
f^^l^ The little outside world beside 
'^^^ Upon the upper rail to ride, 
As how we lived, and living died 
While Pumpkingdoni and Pumpkin grace 
Conquered our turpentinish race. 

With these and other simple things, 

The rise of empires, fall of kings, 

Of Pumpkingdom — its whisky rings — 

Of hulls with nails and hears with stings. 

Republics, how they pass away, 

When from the paths of virtue stray 

But open not the gates of day. 

To others leave of kin to bray. 

My ears are made of simple stuff, 

I know they are not long enough. 

In fact, I have no cause to plead. 
Else virtue bends my bow in need. 
Corruption, or, a soul to bleed, 
Can judge the better when you read. 

Have often fought the bumble-bee 
With branches from tlie apple tree. 



'&^ 



INTRODUCTION. 

Where flight alone is victory, 
"Whose succor flight, to fighting flee, 
Parthian-hke, my bacli to see. 

The dnng-hill fowl will fighting fall- 
Can see the game within him crawl. 
To measure spurs, and crowing mock 
The sallies of the greedy haw^k. 

Men are like fowls when fowls are kings, 
Regardless blood, its colorings, 
Never the longest spur that stings — 
Victor wears the longest wings. 

Never the longest spur to drain 

The royal blood in every vein, 

The longest spur may overstrain 

With victory, the longest brain. 

Fabian won the Roman world, 

While never yet an arroio hurled. 

Unconscious of the gift divine 

A star of glory cannot shine 

With other brains, perchance, than mine. 

To furthermore of prate decline 

And introduce our Pumpkin Yine. 




OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 



'ILL tell of late unpleasantness, 
i^l^ The time has fled, Jehovah bless, 
'^ Will tell thee what you knew before- 
Flease take a stick and notch the score. 

How some, where sunbeams sluggish fall, 
Swallow'd pumpkin — vine and all ; 
Some, where the sunbeam never lags 
Swallowed them, like carpet bags, 
Wliilst others swallowed scallawags. 
Some where the sunbeam is a cracker 
Swallowed them like a bushwhacker. 
Some where the sunbeams gentle when 
Swallowed them like gentlemen — 
Some that could not swallow, burst — 
Dying at last wdth pumpkin thirst. 

I swallowed two together — tied 
My glory and my pumpkin pride, 
While swallowing I never died — 
I swallowed them and still survive 
On Pumpkin diet seem to thrive. 

Some died because they simply wouldn't. 
And some that would ; but simply couldn't. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Wlio, doubtless could a pumpkin chaw, 
But never could a pumpkin raw — 
As for myself 5 I died all over, 
A dying burst on pumpkin-clover. 

And martyrs, some, for pumpkins sake, 
While martja-s, some would never make. 
Some fluent mouths could never fix a 
Mouth to fit the song of Dixie, 
While others, some, that never grew 
A mouth to fit the boys in blue. 

A martyr, then, for mercy's sake. 
Good Lord their souls to glory take, 
A curse on Eve and Adam's snake — 
That wisdom even knew enough 
To halters make of fig-leaf stuff. 

So horrible, for mercy cry 
Unpardoned ! Horrible to die ! 
To mercy plead — a tear that taints 
The combined calender of saints. 
Angels in heaven, if any, sigh — 
We hung them on a limb to dry. 

A blasted limb, a leafless blight. 
Where witches revel out the night. 
A blasted limb, of blasted hopes. 
Suspended from as many ropes. 
Loud thunders roll, the noon of night 
Its darkness in a fearful sight — 
Whose lightning flashes gave us light. 

A hangman's noose, no earthly hope — • 
A hangman to adjust the rope, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. I 

Made siiple with the hangman's soap — 
Masked brutes, the gang, no human trait 
So fiendish hke the mask of hate. 
Nature vanished, and fled for fear 
Unnatural, without a tear, 
No priestly aid, redeeming prayer — 
Assassination filled the air. 
Whose atmosphere of mercy bear — 
Eternity itself w^as there. 

Hung him with what ? Kind nature's twine, 
A rope that elevates our kine 
To brighter stars than glories' shine, 
The tendrils of the Pumpkin Yine. 

End friends, mine eyes are weeping, drowned, 
A weeping for those martyrs, crowned, 
So elevated, upward bound, — 
Their diadems cannot be found. 

Whose fountains, thereof being dry 
Will change my slip-noose with a sigh. 
The panorama change, and try 
To give thee something — Pumpkin Pie. 

An antidote, and without question 
For tetter, — worms, — and indigestion — 
Digesting knots — so even pine — 
Tar, pitch, and rosin — turpentine. 

And pumpkins, too, within our rhino 
And. too, without, upon our vine 
The skeptical will doubtless try 
The vir^"^ '^f r»nv pumpkin pie. 



OUR P[IMPKIN VINE. 

Labeled, — notche, and notch it o'er, 
A cure for local weakness — score, 
Union and country evermore, 
Still deeper notch, to notch remain, 
If mar its bark or cross its grain, 
Or draw its sap of crimson stain 
To never notch the score again. 

To heal the breech of anger's raid — 
Anger exhausted — only stayed 
A keener instrument than blade — 
Prejudice formed envy arrayed. 

Should prejudice upbraid our gallows — 
Will sooth with pumpkin grease and tallows, 
And even if our local greens, 
Will soothe it wdth baked pork and beans. 

While even some, but underraters, 
Soothing with codfish and potatoes; 
While some eternally but blabbers, 
Will soothe with buttermilk and clabbers. 

You see we fix the thing quite nice, 
Without importing foreign spice — 
No import duty over thrice — 
Only of pumpkin pie a slice. 

Wi'll skip a line inclined to bray 
My dotage in inclined to stray — 
A resting somewhat by the way, 
Neglecting what I had to say. 

Will give you something now and then 
About oui' great distinguished when, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

About our great extinguished men, 
While others, some, apparent great, 
Distinguished by the hand of slate, 
To figure-head our ship of State, 
And sink beneath the waves of fate — 
Will now attempt my vast design; 
Magnificent to skip a line. 

Dyspeptic, some of local gout. 
Who make a rennet of their clout — 
So lustily for pumpkins shout, 
And otherwise for Dixie — doubt 
Turning their stomachs wrong side out- 
Whos diet prejudice alone — 
Else hate to give their stomachs tone 
Would recommend pumpkin cologne. 

Some others while so never mum 
Send us the gospel with a hum 
To music of the fife and drum. 
Gospel of peace and pumpkindom. 

One pumpkin bloom may notice claim 

Diffident to call a name, 

And giftless to else scent my game, 

Description to my rescue came 

To vitalize my dormant powers 

With energy that sloth devours. 

The past time of my leisure hoiu:s. 

Of statue low and unshorn locks, 
Appotos else creation mocks, 
Eobust and florid, yet without 
I'eint of ecclesiastic gout, 



OUE PUMPKIN VINE. 

'Tis not the length of locks, but nose, 
The fountain from whence knowledge flows 
A startling wisdom from repose. 
Religion, but God only knows. 
Unostentatious of perfection. 
Preaching the doctrine of reflection. 
From thence faith tliat never grieves 
At over-turning Bible leaves, 
Unfined to other godlike sleaves. 

Grasping with skilful hand the reins. 
Regardless envy's crooked lanes 
That guides the chariot of brains: 
A perfect god, if such a thing. 
Of eloquence and nature's King. 

Another l)loom devotion's ban, 
So without having seen the man. 
Will give the outlines as I can. 
And bring the reader to mine aid. 
Giving the picture light and shade. 

A mental type, a thought outlined, 
Leaving the physical behind — 
The grosser metal of our kind — 
Of characters often inclined 
To vices ape and virtue blind. 
Traced on the tablet of the mind. 



That other bloom my namesake throttled, 
And kindred, too, by Adam wattleded 
In classic poetry called bottled — 
Yet not for that so fameless such. 
But deeds of daring over much 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

A criminal, let mercy hush, 
Her fount of tears more sluggish gush, 
And virtue into crimson blush — 
Emblazoned on fame's disk with coons — 
Unv^eiled — whose altitude the moon's — 
And attitude — that envy swoons — 
For eating chicken pie with spoons. 

Infamous wretch, outlandish boor, 
Infidel Turk, accursed Moor, 
Crimes culminated evil doer, 
Eobbing the rich to feed the poor. 

SELF.J 

My mother taught me how to read, 
Shelalies of our shamrock weed, 
Of our high Irish Celtic breed, 
But nothing about pumpkin seed. 

Through ignorance feeling ingrate. 
With dead men's bones did often prate. 
And utilise their former state. 
While otherwise digested slate 
A pumpkin seed to legislate. 

Am kicking still, how useless fret 
If weather dry or weather wet, 
If hot or cold, liow useless — yet 
The sun will ever rise aud set. 

My web of life is nearly done. 

Its silvered threads are nearly spun, 

Whose gearing is too old to run, 



10 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

The shuttle may an effort make, 
Wliose motive power inclines to shake, 
Whose thread outstretched will surely break, 

The moth within will never hatch, 
The garment is too w^orn to patch ; 
Of sorrow, joy, falsehood and truth, 
Whose warp the golden dreams of youth. 

This loathsome moth, whose shadows tint 
Like autumn leaves, although not in't. 
Impervious to fragrant mint. 
Giving their forms a matchless tint. 

Tho' dying, some, a lacking breath. 
Repulsive — nor while locking death — 
Nor tribute to the monster pays, 
Or floral wreaths, that honor lays, 
The enemy that honor sla^^s. 
Of matchless tint is fear of death. 

I often think that I will try up. 
But without wings how can I fly up ? 
I have it now, will try to dry up — 
Feeling myself already nigh up — 
Enough at glory's wharf to tie up. 

Will anchor off its coast awhile, 
Bathing in floods that never rile. 
In garments of angelic style. 
Purging mj^self of mortal guile. 

Or tie up at salvation's stake 
Its bouy, or an effort make 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 11 

Where sovereign grace may cause a wake 
Whose ripples thirsting nations slake. 

Still nearer to the golden coast — 
Another view — ilhisive most — 
Each fathom's length a golden post, 
Whence saints elect may view the roast, 
Below — and smell its fragrant toast. 

And enter in angelic things, 
Emotionless of former things, 
Voidless of fear and flutterings, 
AYith all the aid of earthly wings, 
The portal of the King of Kings. 

I draw these sketches from reflection, 
Perchance of mental imperfection. 
Perchance it worthy of your note-age, 
That I am in my youthful dotage. 

If true or false l)e at your ease ; 
Believe them or not, as you please ; 
I write to squander pen and ink — 
My mental thirst to quench— my drink — 
Giving you only what I think. 

If you are wrong then I am right 
The upper dog, a fearful plight — 
Often chastised his brutal might — 
The under brute more often right — 
Ever the under dog in fight. 

Eegardless of the brute, if hogs 
Of intellect that virtue clogs, 



12 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

The stature of the brute that ilogs. 
I sympathise with smaller doi^s. 

The lion and the tiger splice, 
And search their breed for hybred lice. 
The cracking sport, however, its 
My sympathies are with the nits. 

My sympathies are with the small, 
Of intellect and physique all. 
Regardless of our custom's thrall 
That custom forces to the wall. 



WALKING MATCH. 

My sympathies are with the lame — 
Of crippled intellect the same. 
That run or w^alk for pelf or fame — 
Whose prize a crutch, w^here manhood begs 
Otherwise useless pairs of legs. 

Defeat, for fallen worth a shroud ; 
A victory for cripples proud ; 
Wild huzzas from the crippled crowd 
A laureled crutch let Bunscombe sing, 
Awarded by a humbug King. 



PRIZE RING. 

My sympathies let mercy rest. 
And virtue weep 'neath honor's crest. 
Where virtue wears the mask of jest, 
And honor but a brutal test. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 13 

Am with the bnite of lesser charms, 
Of longer nose and shorter arms, 
Instmctive less and lesser ^Yind, 
The dwariish of the brutal kind. 
Conflicts where honor is retreat, 
And victory alone defeat. 

A sordid prize, a gilded thing, 
Yile cesspools from a corrupt ring. 
Of humbug fall, else honor save, 
And medal from a King or slave. 

JUSTICE. 

With justice sympathy inclined, 
No statues to her honor find, 
Most truly and more often blind. 
Whose scales suspended (virtue's prize) 
Suspended from her tearless eyes. 

Our modern mills more often stuff — 
More often grind than justice 'nuff — 
With speed suffice to justice bluff. 
Illegal heat from friction it, 
A substitute for legal grit 

Unbridled justice seldom found 
No error's on our mill-stone ground ; 
Both toll and grist to cinders fiy 
Filling the miller's sordid eye. 

No toll my sympathies to twist, 
No miller's hand by mercy kiss't. 
Am ever with the wretched grist, 



14 OUR PDxMPKIN VINE. 

That rudely to the hopper goes, 
A ciihnination of our woes. 

The lightnings flash its speed, or so 
Corruption's heat obstructs its flow. 
No grist is found where embers glow. 
The gods have left their mills below. 



FASTIDIOUSNESS. 

My sympathies ! Oh let me see ! 
Are with a class that takes in tea ; 
My sympathies, and nothing more, 
With grog tliat goes behind the door. 

My sympathies are with a lunch. 
The fastidious that munch 
With elbows that in secret hunch. 
But seldom with a glass of punch. 

So ever with instinctive ore, 
A lunch that goes behind the door. 
I think, indeed, nor slight tlie ass. 
They are by far the weaker class. 

I sympathise-though seldom such — 
With those who never drink too much. 
My sympathies reverse their date. 
Reverse my theories and slate — 
Are with a glass of brandy straight. 
In open space, sunlight or star, 
No screen to virtue's vision mar. 
Whose portals never stand ajar. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 15 

Mj sympathies will ever crawl, 
Eegardless l)randy's fearful thrall, 
Ice tea hypocrisy, and all 
With Darwin's victims to the wall. 



SELF. 

My sympathies had hetter hush — 

Enough to make a poet blush — 

Faint cannot form them wdth a brush. 

I manufacture shoes to nit 

Of calf material to fit, 

To never shrink, or stretch inclined. 

Whose measurement's the human kind. 

The fault's more often lies in you — 
A shapeless foot to fit a shoe — 
So tortured it that mercy scorns 
Hatching a little brood of corns. 
Nothing more sure at your repose, 
Without the aid of knife or blows, 
The shoe will never pinch my toes. 

A dilemma — the shoe to slit, 
A bitter pill, a random hit, 
I have it now — nor fear a bit — 
Shaping your foot the shoe to fit. 

My sympathies — they come by stealth, 
And go with poverty and wealth, 
They bide with mortals without health. 
To on the hinge of prudence wait. 
Listen 1 hear its cautious grate 
Open or shut the doors of fate. 



16 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Some liltle matters may control, 
While destiny without a soul, 
Will ever on its pivot roll, 
Bearing us onward all the same 
(The place cannot precisely name.) 

My sympathy will draw or pall 
With mother Earth are rather small — 
This soulless Earth on which we crawl. 
So heedless of our prayers for breath — 
Within the very jaws of death. 

So guileless this revolving ball, 

That mercy seldom makes a call ; 

And calling but to seldom stay. 

Like angel visits by the way 

A form though meagre grateful most — 

A shadowing our mental cost. 



TO MAS. M. A. C. 

New York. Aug. 30,1882. 

A fervent chain is broken 
A golden link detached 
Loves youthful blasted token 
That never can be patch'd. 

A kiss for them that love me, 
A tear for those that hate — 
Nursing spleens— filth above me, 
Farewell 'tis getting late. 



OUR PUMPKIN VIKE. 17 



Farewell, perchance and ever. 
And ever did I say, 
Oh no we Ave forever 
A farewell to our clay. 

Farewell 'tis bleak December, 
To me so cold and wet, 
While some learn to remember 
I'm learning to forget. 

Farewell my cherished daughter 
To parentage adorn, 
Hose high as angels ought'r 
Above a viper's scorn. 

Farewell, may God in kindness 
Shield thee from fiendish hate. 
Forgive my mental blindness. 
Good-bye 'tis getting late. 



LANGUAGE OF THOUGHT. 

An under current rising nigh — 
Listen, I hear the baby cry — 
Expressing its anxiety — 
Again it cries expressing drouth 
Until the tit relieves its mouth. 

God bless the babe it only cried 
To have its pressing wants supplied. 
A language this, alone of thought 
As understood and only tauglit. 



18 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

The simple reason that I crj — 
Expressive also with a sigh — 
Because my mental fount is dry. 
If any such God's pleasure wains 
Else otherwise supplied with brains. 

My paper lacks perchance of inking, 
Fill the unsullied parts with thinking. 
With thoughts thine own — the art remains- 
The art of cultivating brains. 

With under choice and over care, 
Having no precious time to spare, 
Can find them almost anywhere. 
While art without and troubles aid, 
Will seldom find them ready made. 
God the all-wise, with nature's tools, 
Never yet made up perfect fools. 

EVER MORE. 

Time never fashioned bounds for me 
Its ocean on eternity. 
Witli no alternative that grates- 
Omnipotence regardless fate's. 
Opens to me his golden gates, 
Oblivion's distant shores to see 
'Mid shoreless immortality. 

Time never bade me notch its score 
On timber that we cannot bore, 
Or fill its glass with atom's store, 
While greedy death, a coward slave, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 19 

By ignorance and custom brave — 
A dripping pearls from ocean's wave, 
In nudeness clad — else gossips rave, 
Came rudely to my cabin door — 
As hunting for another score. 

Whose fingers on my shoulder laid, 
(So sensitive to death arrayed 
With chills that ague never made — 
Daggers without the daggers blade.) 

With clenched fist and finger thrust 
Of sorrows all this freshless crust. 
(The fear of death, of death the worst. 
Protection's self — but nature's scheme — 
A night more like a horrid dream.) 
A pointing to oblivion's shore, 
(So indistinct from ocean's roar,) 
And whispered in my ears no more. 

My bark inip'lete on its stocks — 

Fashioned for speed that distance mocks. 

To shun annihilation's rocks 

Bark, crew and cargo orthodox. j 

I 
My craft w^ill launch regardless breath — 
The skeptics spite and spite of death. 
Of what annihilations saith — 
Though death's decree 'tis God's command 
An atom to creation's land 
To ocean's depth a grain of sand — 
Lost in the hollow of His hand. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Will guide my craft from whence the wave 

Of customs thrall to free its slave. 

Our mental storms from whence the breeze 

Our intellects to meet or freeze — 

The zephyr ot emottons ease, 

God's Archipelago of seas. 

May furl a jib or slacken sail, 
Still onward on its trackless trail, 
Borne onward by its deathless gale. 
Will slaken sail— a moment stop — 
Eternity to view its drops. 

Oh, who can measure it — the soul — 
Creation of, its mystic pole. 
Whence other worlds surrounding roll. 
Omnipotence from whence came it ? 
A circle ends whoever knit. 
Omnipotence to measure fit. 
Omnipotence has never found 
To measure depths we cannot sound. 

My destiny a prize unbought. 
My polar star the realms of thouglit 
No mystic pole my course to mai-, 
An open sea nor iceberg jar, 
Can see it looming from afar, 
My destiny the polar star. 

Will spread my canvass to the wdnd. 
Bidding farewell to earthly kind. 
Leaving my tent and wares behind 
Bound for the atmosphere of mind. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 21 

"Will rest awhile through nature's grace. 
In the unfathomed realms space, 

Will anchor heave, and ply my oar, 
To ever hear its billows roar, 
Reiterating ever more. 
Reiterating who may score 
Upon annihilation's door, 
Or till my glass a running o'r. 
Reiterating ever more. 



FAME. 

Fame is a handle — ^jugs to spare 
Fitting their surface anywhere. 
So sensitive a soulless jug, 
Few handles ever lit its plug. 

Then pull it out let virtue's tent. 
Disgorge its wares and give it vent, 
The jug to every handle bent, 
Advertise largely jugs to rent. 
And fame will ever be content. 



GENIUS. 

Genius, a freak of nature's daughter, 
Immaculate and if not oughter, 
Melchesidic alike another. 
Beginning without end or other. 
Father without friend or brother. 



22 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Priestess and Priests, nymphs of the wood, 
"Worship that is not understood, 
The lesser art for priestly good, 
Emotional with mental slaughter 
Like oil wells throwing fire and water. 

The cooling process mental toil — 
Transforming agencies that boil. 
Their cauldron in the bigots toil, 
With common sense a skimmer slop. 
That ever rises to the top. 
'No questioning the verb or tenses, 
Thus purified with mental rinses 
Bringing the protege his senses. 

WHIPPING POST. 

Withhold a rod with it a truce. 
For private more than public use. 
More often wielded for abuse. 
'Tis mostly fear that crime defers, 
Of punishment with brutal curs, 
A punishment that never errs. 

'Tis only when we fail to sort 
Our moral straws the last resort, 
And ever then of virtue short. 
More oftenly tlie way we chaw 
Our moral food to sorrow draw. 
To please our palatable maw, 
Than in the striictm*e of the straw. 

A single tear that mercy drips 
That virtue while a falling sips. 



OUR PUMPKIN" VINE. 

A moral nectar to our lips 

More pungent than a score of whips. 

Remember well we all have flaws, 
Though not apparent to the hws, — 
Concealed in self-protection's cause. 
Alike are unassorted straws. 



Intelligence soars far above 
Our brutal atmospliere — a dove, 
Restraining influences of love. 
On mercj's scales an atom sure 
Of crimes preventitive and lure 
Is better than a pound of cure. 

Reform the man — the savage brute— 
Which is of clemency the fruit. 
Nor forms a knot or lash to flt — 
A whipping-post with sorrows knit — 
Endorsed with curse of holy writ — 
May kill but cannot conquer it. 

Wiser by far the infant child, 
By sugar-plumbs and candy spoiled, 
And never yet by anger riled — 
Than idiots run wisdom wild. 

Would recommend for life its ills, 
For moral ague brutal chills ; 
An antedote that rarely kills^ 
A dose of anti-brutal pills. 



24: OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

PUMPKIN FRIENDSHIP. 

A friend of mine, I will confess 
Not every friend of mine to bless. 
A friend of mine applies the knife 
To save my wretched worthless life. 
Friends though spotted never rots, 
Whose brilliancy obscm'es its spots, 
The naked eye may shun its gass, 
Seen plainly through a moral glass. 

'Tis thus to ever deal with friends, 
Friendship and hate each have their ends, 
That burns its victim caustic browned. 
Or gnaws with tooth of rancour ground ; 
Such brutal tortures to endure 
While friendship's sacrifice to cure. 

Friendship a myth, a worn out tale. 
Outcast from self -protection's pale, 
A weathercock ])j tempests spurned, 
So rudely by all breezes turned, 
A cobweb sporting with the gale, 
A simple freak of fortune's tail. 

Then seek the breezes gentle track. 
The tempest on while turns thy back, 
The cobweb seek while spurn the gale, 
In time of want to never fail. 
Friendship exists the mate of rings. 
When qualified without its stings. 
In dealing with much smaller things. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 25 

Friendship, it matters not the kind, 
To selfishness of self so blind, 
Who seldom ever find it out, 
Until the pocket feels the gout. 
Indeed I think it wisdom's shift 
To transact business without gift. 

The donor, view things as he may, 
With locks of jet a turning gray. 
The obligation cannot pay, 
Whatever way the form may shift. 
The intellect at random drift, 
Their is no offset to a gift. 
Indeed I think God never made 
Affection's mixture for a trade. 

A dormant faculty a nurse. 
Of moral turpitude a curse 
When roused to action by the purse. 
A gift received a simple hint. 
Little intrinsic value in't. 
A garment ever without lint, 
The dearest purchase ever made, 
A debt that never can be paid. 

The donor, too, may often think 
It useless waste of pen and ink, 
Unless perchance a well to sink. 
Whose neiglibors round can freely drink, 
A mental trick of trust-surmise, 
For friendship makes no compromise. 

The donor, too, may often fret. 
About his neighbor's wants, and yet 



26 OUE PUMPKIN VINE. 

That he can never pay the debt, 
The discord thus becomes complete ; 
They cannot strike a balance sheet. 

While should the pocket conscience burn. 
Donate some pocket change in turn. 
But, lo, the donor will not take it, 
'Tis all in vain, nay vainly shake it, 
A friendly act will never break it. 
Will not accept the like, a match, 
To bottom or his pocket patch. 

Thy friendship, oh ! how very thin, 

Hypocrisy to faith akin, 

A faith for which saints never died, 

Friendship for sinner saints allied. 

Would rather lay their faith aside, 

Within their furbelows of pride. 

The covering so very thin. 

The brute is seen the veil within, 

'Mid locks of gray or powder — doubt 
Can see the horns a sticking out. 
'From parts in Greek but for its wale 
Its linen robes furled for a gale 
Could see the wriggle of its tail. 

If cannot live without a blot — 
Upon thy fame, tlien die and rot. 
While independence be thy lot. 
Unsoiled, unsung, without a groat, 
Some purseless friend may find the spot. 



OVU PUMPKIN YUirE, 27 

Inscribed be this upon thy grave, 
Keturned what God in wisdom gave. 
The breath and honor save, 
Death's conquest never made a slave. 

FAME. 

Fame, the plaything of a day, 
And honor, too, like bubble's may. 
Upon the wash-tubs surface play. 
And in a moment pass away, 
Housed by a single breath of an*, 
A vanishing the bubble — where ? 

FIAT MONEY. 



Fiat money and no mistake, 
In every dime we give or take, 
Financially but wisdom's toy. 
Whose fiat portion is alloy. 
The other portion treasures trust 
A sovereign in the realms of nnist, 
So indestructible from rust. 

Specie and paper much the same. 
The difference mostly in name, 
Though paper has the better claim. 
The more destructible our shame, 
Specie the while will doubtless win it. 
With some intrinsic value in it. 

One of misfortunes soulless licks, 
A simple mixture of the tricks. 



28 omt puMPKiK rt^E, 

That finance on the sovereigns fijs^ 
Broken down financial dunce, 
Had better take the dose at once 
Stamp it on silver cloth or paper, 
Uncle Sam our greenback draper. 

A draper, such financial ways, 
No obligation it that pays. 
Specie and paper all the same 
If Samuel will lend his nai^e. 

Consistency's a jewel yet. 

And with it pay our pumpkin debt. 

If good in little, good in all. 

Our sovereign slaves will never bawlp 

Consistency will never squall. 

Compel vox populi to take it, 
Legal tender we can make it. 
From mount or paper valley rake it, 
Bondholders back will never break it, 
Public conscience never shock it. 
To ever in the public pocket. 
Public greed will ever rock it. 

A specie currency of iron 
When worthless otherwise a fire on. 
Can w^eld it for a cart wheel tire on, 
Convenient, too, foi- other uses, 
E"ecessity makes countless truces. 
Invention of, if not its mother 
Finance's dearest, elder brother. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Economy is mostly needing, 
Proficiency in public bleeding, 
Unfortunate we having tools, 
The subject ready, and the stools, 
Our surgeons are a set of fools. 

Know nothing of a surgeon's knife. 
Except perchance in granny strife, 
Baffled by crime rage increases, 
Would tear the subject all to pieces. 

So ignorant of tools their uses. 
The subject is so void of juices, 
The form so badly put together, 
Whose hide is thick as upper leather. 

Something unusual in its center, 
Corruption's ulcer peradventure, 
A knife of steal will never enter. 
A. subject fitted for our needing, 
A willing subject made by bleeding. 

'Tis not the kind of stuff we thought it 
A bad investment when we bought it, 
Our object was not to dissect it, 
But drain the juices and protect it. 
An atmosphere enough to puke us, 
No pocket conscience to rebuke us. 

A change of treatment science teaching 
A process slow, but sure of leeching, 
A process sure without detection, 



20 



30 OUK PUMPKIN VINE. 

Will form a subject for dissection, 
The theme will leave with a demur. 
To wisdom's owls, the while infer 
That sovereign slaves can never err. 

GENIUS. 

Genius, bright jewel of the skies, — 
That seldom lives and never dies — 
'Tis noontide ray wdth thee and yet, 
No morning dew thy brow to wet, 
Or evening shadows to regret. 
Thy risen sun shall never set. 

I see it quoted without buts, 
" Genius — the getting out of ruts " — 
Indeed I think, perchance begin it. 
If not egotistical my sin it, 
Genius a rut was never in it. 

Genius, embodiment of wit. 
Was never formed a rut to fit — 
Ill-formed, indeed, the welded tire. 
The silly witter may aspire 
That never know the use of fire 
Genius to prove itself at once is — 
Its opposition by the dunces. 

OUR SHIP OF STATE. 

The skillful pilot braves the deep. 
Guiding his craft though billows leap, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 31 

Where tempests howl and horrors creep 
Watching his compass, course and shrouds, 
But not for squalls beyond the clouds. 

Nor buried shoals 'mid dangers crave, 
Or roclvs concealed beneath the wave — 
Knowledge is power — feeling its force — 
'Mid danger's lure and w^arning bourse 
Bearing him onward in his course. 
Listen, a gun's distant report — 
A salute from creation's fort — 
Our pumpkin ship is safe in port. 

God bless our good old pumpkin ship, 
All ready for another trip. 
Preparing for another dip, 
'Tis all the same so let her rip. 

But not the same with ocean's wave, — 
A foe more fearful than to brave, — 
A soulless louse if coming gave — a 
Secretary of our knave — a. 

With nothing left but ribs of steal 
To overhaul from deck to keel, 
A perfect sponge of parasites boreing. 
Sharks and land-lubbers underscoring. 

Propelling power to genius true 
Secret of wisdom's owls a few 
Financially the devil's dew 
That fearful instrument the screw, 
In skillful hands, fearful indeed. 
More fearful than a knife to hleed. 



32 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Its deck upon and not the keel, 
Our pumpkin vine upon the reel, 
Running along as machines oughter — 
A deatli shot between wind and water-— 
The vermin on our line to slaughter — 
Too numerous for merely weeding, 
As otherwise may take to breeding. 

Canvass unfurled 'mid owls a screeching, 
In some financial cock loft bleaching — 
Om* noble pumpkin line a screeching 
Though not a rogue to rob us gone. 
But Food for Sharks to hoh us on. 

These mammoth crimes are over nice, 
With crime's venality to splice. 
Too many lice for breeding its, 
My sympathies are with the nits. 

The louse that bites the tail at least 
Contractors by corruption greased, 
Hegardless of pumpkindom if pleased, 
Is more important than the beast. 

A ship went down with many lives, 
A gem came up, and still survives. 
A farewell to the God of day — 
A farewell to the moon's pale ray — 
A welcome thine absent light — 
A welcome to our queen by right — 
God of darkness — queen of night. 



-OUR PCJMPKIN- VINE. 33 

THE ROOSTER PLYMOUTH ROCK. 

Of roosters all the Plymouth Eock, 
Of pnmpkiu breed a crowing cock 
Whose pregnant mate so readj matched, 
A lajmg eggs already hatched— 
So fully grown and over size, 
Too thrifty to be over nice, 
Already served with pumpkin pies. 

MUSIC OF THE SPHERES. 

A music in extortion — 
The music of the spheres- 
Unnatural abortion — 
Of nature draped in tears. 

The hand of art how daring — 
Unscrupulous at best. 
Eecklessly a tearing 
The sinews from her breast. 

A music in the rattle. 
Of dissolution's roar ; 
But nature giving battle, 
Eesistance and no more. 

A music in the bounding. 
The reeling crushing car ; 
Whose playful number pounding. 
Upon its iron bar. 



34 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

1 see wild forms a reeling, 
In ecstacies of woe ; 
From nature's bosom stealing. 
Their music as they go. 

Art may nature thus control, 
The cause whereof we seek. 
For every grain of matter stole 
Kind mature gives a shriek. 

MY BASKETS. 

With baskets twain, and willow spliced. 
One on each arm with leaves. 
My form between the myth of Christ ; 
The baskets twain are thieves. 

As Christ for truth was crucified, 
For which one basket grieves ; 
For cause alike has duly died, 
One basket disbelieves. 

Whose emigration having doubt ; 
Its fate I cannot tell 
But judging from the heat en route, 
I think en route for hell. 

The other one though turned aghast, 
With wings as surplus given, 
A sailing o'er Tarterean coast. 
En route direct for Heaven. 

Should indigence again compel. 
The selling of the leaf ; 
Will at some leisure moment teU 
You more about the thief. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 35 



The Political Life^ Deaths Burial and Resur- 
rectioti of a Certain Celehrated General, 

OUR hero's cant, 

A conqueror by clap-trap hurled 
Around this little humbug world. 
Exhibiting tlie fragrant weed, 
The wonder of our pumpkin seed. 

A conqueror so grown of late 
On thriving food that Caesar ate, 
Unlike Napoleon the Great, 
Or Alexander, robed in State, 
A little longer yet to wait. 

Who conquered others first for pelf, 
A mammoth, seemingly an elf ; 
Who others conquered not himself. 
Thus laid his carcass on tlie shelf. 

Although not hard to resurrect. 
We buried it, without defect, 
Its ritual, let us reflect : 
A burial that honor mocks. 
Of rings political that shocks, 
Within our country's ballot box. 

We honored it — though strange to tell — 
With muffled drum and parting knell ; 
The bugles' blast, let peans smell, 
For what he was before he fell. 



36 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Listen ! I hear a chime of bells 
The friction of whose hammer swells 
Somewhat of fame within its knells. 
Of fame deceased a change we trust, 
The better for commingling dust, 
Commingled how unsoiled at first. 
Corroded now — and if I must — 
Corruption with unbridled lust 
Rank treasons swell amtritious rust. 

Immured in dust, (he barred his claim 

To immortality — a name — 

To immortality and fame.) 

The loathsome dust from whence he came, 

Or others of withal the same.) 

It matters not dunghill or game 

Wrapped in the winding sheet of shame. 

Marked on a tablet — fame deceased — 

Not that he loved his country least ; 

But loved still more the Wall Street beasts. 

Corruption on its wave to glide, 

The upper rail upon to ride, 

Than country more, and fame beside. 

Making the free, a nation firmer. 
Of Hottentots to never murmur, 
Crowning the demigod third termer. 
Usurping in his soulless thrall 
A nation's power so free to all. 

The ides of March, indeed, may come 
To music of the fife and drum. 
Excitement 'mid commotion hum. 
Indeed a funeral for some* 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 37 

Perchance some Csesar may be near, 
AVith indignation, in his rear, 
A ready victim for the bier — 
Or Antony to drop a tear 
Of sorrow and like eloquence — 
Rousing the passions of the rence 
Tempests, that prostrate freedom's fence, 
A banishino; our Eas-le hence. 

The ides of March, if come they must, 
Fresh Brutus's shall rise from rust. 
By millions, mth a dagger's thrust. 
So pregnant in our pumpkin dust. 

Unearthed anew by freedom's spade 
Avengers of a trust betrayed 
The saintly form by freedom's led 
To martyrdom by tyrants bled, 
With curses on the traitor's head. 

A change of atmosphere implied, 
By moral forces outer side 
Upon whose renovated tide 
Our ship of state may safely ride. 

Yox populi ! the people all. 

The hydra-headed people bawl. 

The white cloud that portends the squall 

Whose surges 'mid to rise or fall. 

Of royalty aspii-ant late. 

Doomed l3y the plastic hand of fate. 

To servitude how falsely great. 



38 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Bj fortune too no favored ones, 
Unfortunate that fortune shuns 
Adversely to her wheel that runs. 

Who never stooped to win a smile, 
But conquei-ed it or tried, the while, 
Played on his lips an angel's guile, 
Ridiculous to arrows shove, 
A demi-god and without glove ; 
Cupid alone can conquer love. 

A God become through artful wiles, 
The use of dust-producing files, 
That freedom's limpid fountain riles, 
Whose useful use engenders tlmft 
Ee turning servitude for gift. 

With lip compressed so arrogant 
Of royalty a royal taunt. 
But recent learned the use of cant. 
Alike the moon in weather fair, 
The lake upon is not — but where 
It ouerht to be it is not there. 



^to' 



Whose winding sheets are quite unrolled. 
With hyroglyphics set in gold. 
Whose mysteries as yet untold. 
Cemented with corruption's mould. 
Embalmed with hocus-pocus tricks, 
Political that seldom sticks. 

Exhibiting ambition's cruse 
Disrobed of linen ijumpkin-juice. 



OUK PUMPKIN VINE. 39 

The devil's the veritable deuce 
Receptical for future use. 

While thus the process of unbalming, 
Our nerves political a calming, 
Alike the process of unrolling, 
Our nerves political controlling. 

And even this the while reflecting, 

Our nerves political affecting, 

Its tricks political detecting. 

Oh, what a scheme, a brutal wonder, 

Political and moral plunder. 

A mummy, will you worship it. 
An epicure and without wit, 
Mummy transformed to glutton's nit, 
Mummy without a tail to lit. 

Whose mark recorded this or that. 
Under the chip, the bug a rat, 
The thieving mouse that caught the cat, 
Whose real mark is big and fat. 

One grain of sense a notch or more 
Tlie nerves political can bore, 
Or sophistry can ever score. 
To open wisdom's gates ajar. 
With rusty hinge a lacking spar 
Our nerves political to mar. 

Vox populi ! the people all, 
The hydra-headed people bawl, 



40 OUR PUMPKIK VINE. 

Their mandate forth, no lisping thrall, 
A sovereign or a slave to bend. 
A sovereign did I say or near, 
A copperhead or a stalwart peer. 

Egyptian art is brought in vogue 
]^ot to immortalize a rogue, 
Crime is immortal, play its part, 
Without the aid of mummy art. 

But what a saint transformed has been, 
Within the power of corrupt men, 
Such saints as every saint should be, 
A cat's paw for dishonesty. 
Indeed some stubborn doubts exist. 
That saints at times with sinners twist. 



BRIDAL KISS HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT. 

Cant. 

A conqueror of recent date. 
Abandoning the ship of state, 
To founder on the rock of fate. 
That could not stoop for error, this 
A mark that heroes seldom miss. 
The portal of more perfect bliss. 
The conquest of a bridal kiss. 

Magnanimous and greater still. 
The conquest of a stubborn will, 
Yielding the victor's laurels spoiled, 
Its conquest to an infant child. 



OUE PUMPKIN TINE. 41 



SELF. 

A cliilcl of fortune ever cast 
Upon the tempest and the blast ; 
Beared 'mid their crash and mutrings wikl. 
Nurtured to manhood from a child — 
Rock'd was my cradle with its gale — 
Hushed were my slumbers with its wail- 
Wrapped was my spirit in its shroud — 
My mother-tempests round me crowd — 
A suckling of its thunder clouds 
This thy country ? Mine, too, and storms, 
Tornadoes in their wildest forms, 
A heritage our sires endowed 
With freedom, amid tempests loud. 
Claim it, ye Pumpkins, and be proud ! 

Pumpkin, I love thee ; well I may 
Prefer thee cooked ; but anyway, 
The land that taught me B, C, A, — 
Was born while folks were making hay, 
Over thy hills of granite gray. 
It matters not the where — a stray — 
A freak of fortune ? Fortune? Nay. 
Eather a clump of deformed clay ; 
I love thy fish and Pumpkin Bay. 
Thy pumpkin aristocracy. 

I love thy vinCj that outward throws 
Its stalwart arms, as to enclose 
Its sacred roots from Freedom's foes — 
From treason's frost — secession's flood. 
'Twas water'd by a Warren's blood. 



42 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 



I gaze on Bunker's brow, that rears 
Its summit high amid the spheres ; 
The Mecca of our hopes amid fears ; 
The altar of our vestal fires ; 
Ignited by our noble sires, 
To perish when our vine expires. 

From out thy monumental square, 
'Neath Fame's immortal obelisk. There 
Throwing its branch-like Freedom, where 
Through foreign clime and native air 
Our pumpkin-seed lies buried there. 

Engraved upon, in bold relief, 

Our country's pumpkin-vine — in brief 

For Liberty, an ample crop, 

A pumpkin pois'd upon its top. 

This is the country of the vine : 

Of pumpkin-pie and pumpkin-wine. 



A land where all the pumpkins meet — 
For every one a pumpkin seat — 
With pumpkins rolling at our feet — 
Mid pumpkin-blossoms — Oh! how sweet! 

We hail this fragrance from afar, 
With nothing of the smell of tar. 
They blossom near the polar star, 
Amid Sahara's desert drear — 
Thriving as well in every sphere. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 43 



PUMPKIN FAITH. 



An immortelle, celestial, tliine, 
Conceiv'd in grief, who may divine. 
On Bunker's Hill and Brandywine. 
Its country all creation's sod ; 
No master, but the Pumpkin God ; 
Priestess, the blooming, pregnant weed ; 
Its ritual to pumpkin's breed. 
To pumpkins grow — its only creed. 

Of unity, the figure one ; 
Of chastity, the ray less sun ; 
Of charity, the miser's ban ; 
Fraternity, creation's clan — 
The man's humanity to man— - 
Justice to all, that virtuous live, 
Temper'd with mercy to forgive. 

This gospel ours, so seldom taught 
An offspring of the realm of thought, 
The only worship worth a groat ; 
Immortal be our pumpkin vine — 
I worship at no other shrine. 

No music like of classic spheres. 
To calm and quell sectional fears ; 
Profane it not, the behest thine, 
To tooting-toot our pumpkin-vine. 

Yice-regent, it cannot be slain ; 
To ashes burn'd, it thrives again j 
Of fibre crossed — so firmly knit ; 



4A OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

"Will sprout anew, whereever liit — 
Our pumpkin-vine cannot be split. 

Pumpkins were formed, wisdom's device 
(With rather pepper for its spice) — 
Our Pumpkingdom to firmly splice ; 
Of reconstruction's plan's a test, 
If pumpkins swallowed whole, digest ! 
Digestive e'en from heel to crown. 
From over-baking — rather Brovm. 
Better, perchance, to cram them down. 

We'll take the twain without rebuke, 
We'll swallow them, if even puke — 
My ardor cools, and will be d— d, 
By all creation's shutters slammed, 
If I believe in being crammed. 
Much less like an old musket, rammed, 
With Pumpkingdom, eternal truce, 
No outlet for the pumpkin-juice. 

To swallow them, my constant pride, 
My mouth is small and I have tried, 
And swallowed both, together tied ; 
Then, manly, take them ; never squ inn 
With nothing tape about the worm. 
No vermifuging, never squall. 
Open your mouth, they inward crawl. 
And swallow pumpkin, vine and all. 

And, furthermore, our contract signed, 
Cures local weakness of the mind — • 
By smelling blossoms, pumpkin rhined. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 45 

Tlie contract, tliougli a silly truce, 

Was never made for local use, 

I smell'd the bloom, with passion luke, 

I smelled it — but I did not puke. 

Then smell the blossom, friends and foes, 

And hold it firmly to your nose. 

This fragrant blossom never lag. 

Unreconstructed if you gag. 

While time from its celestial hive, 

Shall swarm its worlds, and comets drive, 

Science, its void, for wisdom dive 

Our pumpkin-vine would not survive ; 

Would wither 'neath God's curse, and rot, 

A by-word for the royal sot, 

Unsung, unhonored and forgot. 

Then wag the pumpkin — never pale- 
Pine-knot and mud-sill never fail. 
The pumpkins wag ; but not its tail 
A-ricling on the bottom rail, 
A-singing doodle, with a sigh, 
A-singing doodle, hungry, dry, 
For pumpkin- wine and pumpkin-pie. 

Through summer's heat we never wailed ; 
Through winter's cold we never quailed ; 
On gophers fed, and coarsely mailed. 
And yet our pumpkin crop hath failed. 
Have pumpkins tilled — the seed run out — 
The nutmeg ; but it would not sprout. 
And left us with the poor man's gout. 
Then feeding stock with pumpkins, tried — 



46 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

They took tlie cholera and died ; 
Entrails, a perfect coil of knots, 
Not even fitting food for bots. 

God help, in this, our time of need. 
To wisely cross onr native breed 
With pumpkins grown from Arctic seed ; 
To cultivate, in faith, the vine, 
With nothing more of turpentine. 

Our native tar — its fragrance gone. 
With sooty marks our brows upon. 
The mark of toil, a homespun patch, 
To Joseph's coat of colors match. 
The mark of Cain a simple scratch. 

If progress thus its van must lead, 
Our pumpkin hopes are poor indeed ; 
Our pumpkin vine a loathsome weed, 
Pregnant with filth of bastard seed. 

But, lo ! a granny from afar. 
She Cometh to our land of tar. 
With quackery, to science spar. 
She cometh to our land of tar. 

She cometh to our climate mild. 
With theories absurdly wild ; 
Accouchment of abortions mild, 
A granny such ! for freedom's child. 

Uncompromised, a tyrant still, 
Of higher law and iron will, 



OUR PUMPKIN YINE. 47 

Ignoring the physician's skill, 
An Amazon, her arts are vain, 
xl Hercules — the brute is slain — 
Miscarriage it, from overstrain. 

Though cultivating still the vine, 
We'll box our trees for turpentine ; 
Hoping, perchance, a double croj), 
Will give us turpentine a drop. 
To kindle fresh, with pine-knot fires 
The altars of our defunct sires. 

Like Bible birds, we'll toil begin, 
For only those that only spin ; 
But merchandise — our scruples sell — 
Conscience pocket — coffers swell — 
Test coin and value by their smell ; 
All Christian, Jew and Infidel — 
Let pumpkin raising go to hell. 

Our solid tar — too cold to run ; 
The Arctic iceberg cannot shun 
Friction, its power — in spite of weather — 
Melting, froze us fast together. 
That friction process made us squall ! 
Froze us together. That was all. 

CENTEALIZATION AND RETROGATION. 

DarwivUs Theory Reversed. 

A theory, astutely nice. 
That latent heat exists in ice. 
If such the case, within our belt, 



48 OUK PUMPKIN VINE. 

In time we must together melt. 
Then such a flood — such times for sharks- 
Doves — beasts in pairs — and Noah's arks. 
The air we breathe and earth we skim in, 
Already seems prepared to swim in. 

Examine well your skin for scales — 
Your throat for gills, and rump for tails, 
Your back for fins, your mouth about, 
Perchance an infant water spout. 
Examine well for scales — their marks 
A nation yet, perchance of sharks^ 
Examine well, if void of scales, 
A nation yet, perchance of whales. 

A ladder, oh ! ye spirits seven ! 
Or pumpkin vine to crawl to heaven. 
Of horrors all, excepting -blood ; 
Of curses, an avenging flood. 

The nation strong, must yet be stronger, 
Our pumpkin vine as broad and longer. 
Top'd — robbed of blossoms, all save one, 
That silence and division done. 
Thus despotism's work begun. 

The blossom soon to fruit matures, 
A bloated monster — filth inures — ■ 
Well guarded in his golden nets, 
By satellites with epaulets. 
And mercenary bayonets. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 49 

Kindred around liim, sail like kites, 
Dubb'd with the cross of honor knights, 
Kogues and thieves from jail and gutter. 
Upon him leech for bread and butter. 

Bondholders great, and nabobs little, 
Swarm like flies around his spittle. 
Gentlemen for whisky passes. 
Gaze vacant round, with ears like asses. 

Kailroad kings, who never blunder. 
As lightning, quick, with louder thunder. 
Gather their share of public plunder. 
Top ralis up — and bottom under. 

The wiskey ring, are put his guard on, 
A seeking for a future pardon ; 
A marching on, with gaudy banners. 
Music, " what's the matter, Hannah ?" 
A seeking for a defunct tanner. 

Gotten thieves and coin bushwackers, 
Elbow out, the green Greenbackers 
Who hold that paper stamped, is money, 
With a financial conscience, one a 
Hive, so never out of honey. 

The whole concern seems on a bender, 
Bondholder, banker, money-lender. 
Gold and silver is their motto 
Coin'd to suit the banker sot — oh ! 
Hoarded in a marble grotto. 
Marble grotto, without rent. 
Minus pumpkins four per cent. 



60 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 



Our pumpkin debt is bonded — taken ; 
A four per cent, how wisely reckon. 
In honor bound, how very sacred. 
Tax-payer's back, the while is naked. 
The public debt, a public curse is. 
Without a tie-string to its purses. 

Some theories — essential trash — 
Of Darwin's theory — rehash 
Perchance the food will seldom smash, 
It matters little, this or that, 
Provided with sufficient fat ; — 
It matters not, — on fiction's stream 
While fiction is my only theme 
Stemming its current without steam. 
Reverse the current, indirect, 
Judge causes only by effect. 

And Darwin's theory, who scorns, 

That time shall sport our brows with horns, 

Whose rising sun, in full salutes 

A nation yet unborn — as brutes 

So loathsome thus, vile beasts to crawl, 

Upon the earth, unto the wall. 

From virtue fell — and that is all. 

The image of his God perfect 

In that alone he walks erect, 

A lacking virtue, his defect. 

God's essence, his, by right of birth 

A child of Heaven, supreme on earth. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 51 

Man retrogrades, while science wails, 
Until our very finger nails 
Shall blossom into monkeys' tails 
Deflecting while times' cicles roll 
Developing a monkey's soul. 

That having souls, no Darwin squirms, 

The latest theory confirms 

Who even claim a soul for worms. 

The latest theory absurd. 

That propoge mostly interred. 

Absurd, a merited rebuke, 

A Darwin scientific puke. 

Darwin is doubtless somewhat right 
An obscure ray of reason's light 
Doubtless his theory selections 
Is adamant against reflection 
While theories, the most profound 
Are ever running under ground 
The fact is this : let science go, 
His ladder is one round too low. 

Fame never wreathes a golden crown, 
For them that crawl her ladder down 
Perchance, within the Darwin cup, 
To crawl Fame's ladder wrong end up, 
If false or true, let monkeys rip 
Another vacant line to skip. 

No monkey in a sober brain. 
Unless it be from overstrain. 
If monkeys in the wine we drink, 



52 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Blue devils when of wine we think — 
One thing is sure — a curse be mine 
If monkeys in our pumpkin rhine, 
Or devils blue, our pumpkin vine ; 
So doubtless more within with clout, 
Then full-grown brutes the pumpkin out. 

Perchance a monkey pens this ink ; 
Perchance a monkey may not drink ; 
Perchance a monkey may not think ; 
Perchance a monkey — thus or so, 
"With brains ; a monkey tale below. 
Who only knows the use of flail, 
The feathers in a monkeys tail. 

Should monkey, in my social ire. 
But raise his tail at my desire, 
Would never set the world on fire 
Or raise a blister on my lyre. 

While retrogations pride shall wear 
Eumps with tails, and hides with hair ; 
With footlip hoofs — a creature rare, 
Calfless legs, of ages hoary, 
Calf within the upper story ; 
Form erect, a stick so candled, 
Sitting posture, bottom handled ; 
Our notions stunt, twisting about, 
A Darwin tail is sticking out. 

I thought, perchance, to take a twist, 
A warning in succeeding list ; 
A warning only for ourselves 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. ^S 

So doubtful of these Darwin elves. 

Examine well thy brow with care, 
If horns are not apparent there ; 
Examine well, perchance a pair 
Concealed beneath thy locks of hair. 

Examine well thy foot, its roof. 
Its nails about, for signs of hoof ; 
Examine well thyself, and laugh 
That thou are neither man nor calf. 

Examine well, incline to prate. 
If not the more inclined to blate. 
Thy finger, well — its form of nail, — 
Thy rump about for signs of tail. 
Examine well, lest instinct teach 
For change of intellect and speech. 

Search well thy locomotive pegs 
For evidence of calfless legs ; 
Be positive, at times instead. 
The calf is found about the head. 
Experiment in mellow row, 
To bellow like a calfless cow ; 
Failing in all — the proof, alas ! 
Purchase a two-cent looking-glass. 

Of Darwin's theory, a cup, 
Perchance I turn it wrong side up ; 
It matters not the side, or where. 
So doubtless filled with Darwin air. 
It matters not while fiction strong, 



54 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

And yirtue with her robe so long, 
Add soul and vigor to my song. 

CENTILISATION. 

Nation, its abject slaves salute ! 

Their President-elect a brute ; 

They bend the knee, power hath no checks, 

He rides upon their slavish necks. 

Still bend the knee, wild paeons ring, 

The President-elect — a king. 

So ever thus, with power and pride 
The backs of ignorance to ride ; 
Its gilded seat may pleasant feel, 
Its drunken votaries may reel. 
Its ribs, alas, are made of steel. 
Will gaul thy back — the process sure 
No liniment can ever cure. 

A nation when despotic knaves, 
Eule you with their soulless braves. 
When wealth and ignorance combined 
To smother out our pumpkin vine. 

Corruption, when, with gilded paint, 
A free man's ballot-box shall taint. 
Conscience, whene'er is bought and sold 
A traffic for its weight in gold. 

Justic, whene'er shall Mercy spurn 
Mercy spurns Justice in her turn, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 55 



When God's own priesthood, with their frills, 
Breed wolves along their pastoral rills 
And scatter their flocks amongst the hills. 
When man is brute, with horns as long. 
When wrong is right, and right is wrong 
So Fiction sayeth, so says my song. 



DE LESSEPPES VS. CANT 

A conflict, such, with Suez bull 
The risen moon is now at full 
The longest rope and strongest pull. 
The scene of conflict, Darian's 
And Nicaragua's brutal pens 
The one Q.Jio7' de lice — a lock 
Of Franco-Norman-Celtic stock. 

The other, of the vintage breed 
A fuU-grow^n sample pumpkin seed. 
A kindred of our royal aunt. 
The ocean o'er and without taiit 
That knows no English word as cant 
Of kindred, did I say ? A sham 
Will never down a pumpkin cram. 
A kindred only by a dam. 

Such kindred once were Erin's trust 
Whose crimson's shamrock trails the dust. 
(And ours, thank God the bauble bursts 
(Transformed into a pumpkin crust.) 

Thus goaded by a brute, and how 



56 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

The vengence of the royal cow 

Of Norman law, uncurbed desires, 

Torch of unrestituted fires, 

Kobbing the offsj^ring through their sires. 

Custom is law, since time began 
Keep what you have, get what you can, 
Of savage brutes; but not of man 
Of brutes who have a mill-stone soul. 
Taking the grist, robbing the toll. 



NAVIGATION — CANT. 

The other of the vintage breed 
Thus fallen from an over greed 
For pumpkin pie and pumpkin weed 
A sailing round this mighty world 
'Mid smoke, Havana, mighty curled, 
To see our mighty flag unfurled, 
Self-constituted — with contributions. 
The grandest of World's Expositions. 

The purloined ship steams up to go 
Menagerie safe stored below 
Or deck upon — care not to know 
This little world, the outside show. 

A pleasure trip, no pumpkin cram 
No vulgar oaths — the like be damn 
No shutters of creation slam 
Expenses paid by Pumpkin Sam. 



OUll rUMPKIN VINE. 57 

Scenery being a showman's gist 

The panorama will untwist 

Of animals give you a list. 

Give the schedule as I saw it 

Its bone therewith, if soft, can chaw it; 

If hard, but fleshy, you can gnaw it. 

If disappointed — never moan 
The animal was scarcely grown. 
Marrow, perchance, was in the bone. 
Can gnaw or chaw them, as you please, 
WiU guarantee no pumpkin grease. 

CANT. 

If tears to shed, suppress them now 
Behold the carcass of a cow. 

So seemingly in conflict slain 
Yet lingering signs of life remain. 
Two noble horns bedeck her brow 
The third one not apparent now. 
Our tears suppressed, no brutal doubt, 
Will bring the little imps to sprout. 

While fever from the onions rise 
Icicle like, of monstrous size. 
Suspended from our tearless eyes 
From fever of the onion's kind 
Enough to make a pumpkin blind. 

How wonderful the brutal kind, 
Such specimens we rarely find 



58 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Of diverse brutes in one combined. 
How wonderful a heart's contrition, 
More wonderful a fault's admission, 
How wonderful the exhibition. 



THE EXHIBITION — CANT. 

Exhibiting the horns of steers 

Asses of, without asses ears, 

A breed of monkeys without tails, 

Hogs with full grown finger nails ; 

Polecats, without offensive smell, 

Sinners that never go to hell; 

Of algebra, the figure 7 ; 

Of saints, that never go to heaven. 

Of morals, late exhibiting 
A sample of the whisky ring, 
A modern specimen of brass 
To utilize explosive gas ; 
Nutmegs, of a doubtful breed — 
Exhibiting a pumpkin seed. 

Exhibiting a pumpkin slim. 
How one so great Fame's ladder climb 
Its partial height, on pumpkin's rim 
While falling never broke a limb. 

How falling thus, and without stain, 
A figure-head to plow the main, 
A pliant tool for others gain 
Could, falling, never rise again. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 59 

How one so low, and without thrift, 
Without the faculty of shift, 
A following the currents drifts. 
Could earn a living without gifts. 

How one so pure, could artless smell. 
The balm of heaven and fumes of hell. 
Incredible and strange to tell, 
And longer on God's foot-stool dwell. 



TRUE GREATNESS — Cant. 

Over the scene I draw a pall, 

True greatness may Fame's ladder crawl, 

But from its eyrie never fall 

So firmly to its summit chained. 

Of angels, nought their blemish stained 

Therefore, no Paradise regained 

Or lost to Fame, not that they crawl 

But crawled too high, a round — were all. 

True greatness thus can never fall 
Fame's ladder on like Jacob's tall 
Each round their strength to glory crawl 
O'er heaven's high parapeted wall. 

A parapet whence angels fell 
Down to the lowest depths of hell. 
Of inspiration Milton's due, 
Adopted by divines, a few — 
That noble Byron never knew. 



60 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

As eagles, from selection, form 
An eyrie for their nestlings warm, 
Some mountain cliff above the storm, 
Thus from their eyrie's safely roam 
Unguarded round their mountain home, 
Unfledged the while, a soaring high, 
Self-conscious that they cannot die. 

God holds their movements in a thrall 
And guides their flight — they cannot fall. 
True greatness, thus, erects 'mid space, 
A monument to sovereign grace, 
While virtue holds the sovereign's place ; 
Whose empire, universal space. 



Cant, 

So falsely great, yet great enough, 

With nothing of the Suez stuff. 

Fame's ladder climbed awhile and dropped, 

Not that he climbed too high, but stopped. 

And falling — why, alas to tell, — 
From virtue's ladder basely fell. 
And falling thus, so timeless slow, 
Down to the depths of moral w^oe. 

A retribution, — ever just — 

For lack of manhood, greedy lust ; 

From virtue, fallen to the dust. 

A revelling in filth sublime. 

With bulls and bears, their loathsome slime, 



OUB PUMPKIN VINE. 61 

In lialls of wealth, financial crime — 
The queenly harlot of our time — 
The Babylon of every clime. 

Our pumpkin-seed may be a prize, 
With over merit, over wise ; 
Dazzling with fame the artless skies. 
His sun of art hath yet to rise. 

In battle brave, and skilled about, 
The battle-field, not brutal doubt, 
With military fame — the gout — 
To blow a flickering candle out. 

Fresh with the dew of glory wet. 
Though cold his brow, not marbled yet ; 
No pumpkin vintage can forget 
His risen sun shall never set. 

His faults were vanity and pride, 
Venial alone 'less crime allied. 
Keeping the pumpkin purse untied 
For hungry bulls and reckless bears, 
To take their undivided shares. 



CRITICISM. 

By charity endowed to live, 
To never be a public seive, 
With nothing but the chaff to give, 
And even that, an artful blind. 



62 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Borne onward by the passing wind ; 
A bursting bubble's brilliant hue : 
Bursting to nothingness, and you. 

Of siftings all, first sift thyself, 
Then lay the sifter on the shelf. 
To see thy fault, the sifter through it, 
The sifter through us often view it. 

Be guarded lest thy sifter half — 
Losing both middling and chaff, 
Thus starving satire's sucking calf 
At thy expense shall roundly laugh. 

While satire's sphere is never all 
Of ridicule, lest virtue fall. 
Having no ladder (Jacob's) tall 
Of rounds thereon to glory crawl. 



But sends its shaft. Fame's ladder, higher, 
That those who climb, with Virtue's fire. 
Climb not alone, in time of need. 
While Vice, her progress maj^ impede. 
From Satire's shaft shall surely bleed. 



Mark Virtue here upon the sign, 
If cannot fill the bill, resign, 
And follow her, be not afraid — 
Though labor genius never made- 
Never too late to learn the trade. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 63 

A coward nor, at Vice's frown, 
Invert your sign, or take it down. 
Better by far a crown of thorns — 
A diadem, than toes with corns ; 
A boot of calf to never fit 
The leather although made of it. 

Thus ridicule or satire ends ; 
With whom take liberties but friends ? 
Perchance some friend, or even not, 
May have some weak or tender spot. 

Perchance some future foe or friend, 
May strain my bow to arrows send 
Such is the poet's cheerless lot ; 
To arrows, send, and paper blot. 



IDEAL. 

The purest pearls by disease wrought, 
'Mid ocean's deepest waters caught, 
By labor to its surface brought 
To photoghaph the realms of thought. 

So mental pearls and without stain 
By divers caught 'mid ocean's brain. 
From mental depths, a toy to please. 
An offspring of the mind's disease — 
As evidence of mental ulcer 
A fevered brain and rapid pulse — or. 



64 OUR PUMPKIN TINE. 



DEVELOPERS YS. CANT. 



Listen, I hear the shovels rattle — 
Spades and shovels waging battle ; 
Who battle not with one another 
Like mankind man, and man, his brother 
They battle each with earth, their mother 
A battle such of moral forces : 
A duel only of resources. 

The one is fighting for the lily, 

The other for the pumpkin fillie ; 

The one where air is set in motion, 

The other, deep beneath the ocean. 

A fighting Titans' granite rocks, 

Old Ocean's waves and unwrought docks, 

Where commerce from creation fiocks. 

The other, rivulets and rills, 

Unruffled lakes, majestic hills 

And soil that irrigation tills. 

Who may conquer? I will docket 
Him that has the longest pocket, 
Thankful for a conscience tender 
(I never was a money-lender) 
Both may win, depending whether 
That issues pool themselves together. 
Both may win (I drop a tear,) 
Our pumpkin-vine may interfere. 

Oh, horrible! Of pumpkins young 
By lilies and bullnettles slung 
Perchance it has remaining sense 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 65 

Enough to ride upon tlie fence, 

While commerce, with its splendid ease, 

Will even cure the heart's disease. 

The Monroe doctrine, high sea dower, 
Thus obsolete, and pumpkin sour. 
We are the creatures of the hoi>r. 
The moral forces are our power 
Of progress mainly, and divorces 
From brutal thralldom our resources 
Ideal and commercial forces. 

Praisewortj he, be saint or devil. 
That conquers a commercial revel 
To prostrate hills to ocean's level. 

Praiseworthy he, who with the spade 
Commercial backbone, life of trade, 
Shall conquer earth for human aid. 
Leaving to brutes the sanguine blade. 

Praiseworthy he, by constant toil 
Who conquers earth, its virgin soil ; 
Leaving to brutes the savage broil. 

Praiseworthy he, who conquers lies — 
That conquers virtue as a prize — 
And wipes a tear from sorrow's eyes. 

The greatest conquerors are those 
That conquer others without blows : 
Defiance, at self- weakness hurled 
To conquer self, and then the world. 



66 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

A conflict such, old Time shall sing 

Of Suez bull and ever wing 

And crown the brow of Suez king. 

He never set the tides in motion, 
But soothed their anger by devotion, 
A-guiding them to suit his notion. 

He never said: waves, "peace, be still," 
That gave their Master's word a thrill- 
But, strange to say, they do his will. 

Great Suez king, fresh wonders start 

From Egypt's burial of art, 

A reuniting from divorces, 

Asiatic soil of art-resource 

By a commercial water course — 

A monument to commerce made 

By labor free and shoulder blade. 

The walls are up, the oceans one 
Their briny tides together run. 
Thus god-like formed, commercial raid 
On Egypt's classic sand is maid. 

History while, that seldom lies, 
Shall scroll a name that never dies. 
Constructions, like that fame, outbids 
Eternal as its pyramids. 

DOMESTIC. 

I see no curling battle smoke, 
No flashes from the sabre's stroke, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 67 

Still waging battle full of mirth, 
A-battling with kind mother earth. 

All quietude — as labor can, 
With industry, the loafer's ban — 
That soulless shadow of a man. 
I see a stalwart form a-toiling, 
With brawny arms the forest foiling, 
Potatoes in the pot a-boiling. 

Of implements for warfare made. 
To battle hills, and mountains grade, 
In magnitude, the royal spade 
I see a useful beauty glow. 

A majesty about the hoe. 

That loafing scoundrels never know. 

A majesty that labor brings 

To crown the brow of nature's kings. 



A majesty about the plow, 

A majesty upon the brow 

That guides its shear, its handles hold, 

More beautiful than crowns of gold. 



The shovel, too, a princely aid. 
And helpmate of the royal spade, 
A follower in its footsteps dumb, 
A gleaner of the mighty crumb. 
I sing of thee, and thee alone. 
The scavenger of nature's throne. 



6S OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 



ECONOMY. 

Economy, scavenger's queen, 
Is neither stale, or stingy mien, 
The fruitful source of social woes, 
At times of words, more often blows ; 
The battle ground of pride between 
She never holds a miser's screen. 

A scavenger — industry's shade. 
Of briny drops the ocean's made. 
Economy — industry's trust, 
A gleaner of the mighty dust 
Of ages from the mountain rust. 
The source of power, a saving gift 
That ever crowns the brow of thrift. 

These majesties shall never cease 
Till ruled the world by arts of peace ; 
A sovereign seal since time began, 
Regardless race, of color, clan, 
God's impress on the brow of man. 

DARWINISM. 

The latest theory is worms, 
These conscientious little squirms ; 
Intelligent to earn their bread, 
And social, too, as Darwin said : 
A perfect tail from tail to head. 

To give the theory a gist. 

Add snakes unto the social lists. 

Indeed, we have the Scriptures for it, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 69 

Of ridicule, or satire, nor it, 
Though scriptural, must yet abhor it. 

MY LYRE. 

So doubtless true, I can but yelp it ; 
Emotional, I cannot help it. 
Although a snake a useful whelp it. 
Pardon my lyre, without seduction. 
Or anything of like construction. 
Give you a formal introduction. 

Pardon my lyre, no freakish caper 
Of worms, their habits, forms, if taper. 
She lately read it from a paper. 
If skeptical and careless heed it — 
I'm positive I heard her read it. 

Of Darwin's theory we call 
*' Nature's selections," hurl the small 
And weaker vessels to the wall. 
This fact apparent must prevail. 
Thy pardon for my ruthless flail. 
Please give us monkey without tail. 

If she digress, so prone to flatter, 
To theorize on other matter, 
The chalice to her lips of wine. 
The essence of the pumpkin thine, 
To reckless spurn, no fault of mine, 
To branch out with our noble vine, 
And follow it, with scroll unfurled, 
To outer limits of the world. 



y^ 



70 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

To take in science as we go 
"With is7ns all, both high and low, 
Theology, oh ! never know 
A theme that mortals cannot show. 

Still following, regardless hits, 
Wielding a shaft that seldom fits. 
Scratching our heads for Darwin nits, 
While destinies are ever fixed, 
We'll give you spice and pepper mixed. 

We fight our battles without foes, 
Fighting at long-taw without blows, 
We pull no monkey by the nose. 
Or even tread on tender toes. 
We fight our battles, friend, take care, 
Loading our guns with pop-gun air. 

We never bend a bow to hit, 
We never wear a shoe to fit, 
Prefer a grindstone without grit. 
The question, if can swallow it. 

Like dwarfish curs, with selfish eyes. 
And parlor pimps to mountains rise. 
But for their clouts, would be a prize, 
Expand themselves to giant size. 

By louder barking, louder hollow, 
Expanding just like snakes to swallow, 
So perfect toads, their lake within 
As swallowed by their devil kin 
Are devil's, but not devil's kings, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 71 

Are angels without angel's wings, 
Are vipers, without viper's stings. 

So doubtless true, ere Adam's fall 
Were perfect angels, one and all 
Accursed, upon the earth to crawl, 
Walking serpents — that is all 
The matter is, are out of joint, 
With every one their weaker point. 

So Jonas-like, raising a gale, 

Causing old Jupiter to quail. 

So fierce, old Neptune dare not sail, 

He shall within — a bark so frail 

And trident, too, of no avail 

So swallowed Neptune and the whale. 

Though Scriptural — may not believe 
With nothing of old Mother Eve 
An accomplice, at Eve to grin. 
The serpent, too, so void of sin, 
Out of respect we'll throw him in. 

So eloquent — unlearned to read 
With nothing serpent in our creed, 
Or even in our vintage weed — 
A perfect Cicero to plead. 

So doubtless true, God's shoulder-blade 
Of deity the God-like shade, 
Divines of late revisions made — 
So every workman to his trade. 



72 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

If Scriptural, perchance mistake it, 
So thus our late revisions make it. 
Wisdom may more wisely view it 
The bigger gets — the more I chew it, 
I cannot see the ladder through it. 

Pardon my lyre, so full of lip. 
But only on 2, pleasure trip 
Of animalsy the line we skip 
Expenses paid — so let it rip. 

Should future clouds propitious rain, 
And rise the tempest to my strain, 
We'll plow once more the raging main, 
JExhibiting my tricks again. 

Pardon this sportive pen of mine 
Exhibiting, nor by design, 
The wonders of our pumpkin rhine, 
And vintage of our pumpkin vine. 



CENTORLUMN. 

Our pumpkin vine — at seeming ease — 
Gives lingering signs of heart disease, 
Whose rhine itself is without spot on. 
Within corrupted, false and rotten. 

As evidence the palpitation 
Of this great and pumpkin nation, 
Whose rapid pulse can never freeze o'er 
Degrees 90, Fahrenheit, or more. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 73 

Outward the tempest loudly roars 
Such slamming of creation's doors, 
Kaised dander of financial whores, 
Leaving no shutters loose, ajar, 
To dream of wealth and empire ma'r ; 
The mid-day sun, great god of light. 
The moon's pale ray, great queen of light. 
To banish from their sordid sight. 

"Within, as quiet as a lamb, 
With shells expanded as a clam, 
AVho cannot hear the shutters slamming, 
The tempests roar, and curses damning. 

Like logger clams, and without nails, 
Jaws expanded — coats of mails, 
Catching the small fry with their tails. 
A vision saw, not hearing well. 
The tolling of a muffled bell. 
How great a pumpkin nation fell. 

From centre, not, but from its sources, 
Throughout its sap the virus courses, 
From mountains, vales, and countless springs, 
Once Freedom's seat, the syren sings, 
Corruption to its centre brings. 

Corruption here its power distils, 
The pumpkin rhine a viper fills 
A-shrivelling with corruptions taint 
A loathsome mass of gilded paint. 

Reversed the current, while the stills 



74 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

A-vomiting their loathsome swills, 
Absorb the manhood of the hills 
And virtue of the distant rills. 

Reverse the current. What a theme. 
Disgorging all their putrid steam, 
Perchance, a nightmare's frenzied dream 
Forcing the current upward stream. 

Reversed the current, an ovation 
To the vintage of our nation ; 
To our manhood and our station ; 
To nature's laws and navigation. 

To making beer of mash, for wine 
Extracted from our pumpkin vine, 
Regardless of its essence thine 
The nectar of the god's divine. 

Reversed the current, hear a shout : 
The mandate comes, the latest out, 
The mountains quake, the shout of knaves, 
Freemen of late, transformed to slaves. 

Once the seat of power and glory, 
Now transferred a thing of story, 
To a clan of villains hoary. 
Into the hands of butchers gory. 

To biting dogs, the wrong will right, 
While canine hair cures canine bite. 
While murder from its hideous lair, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 75 

Assassination, too, may dare ; 
Asserts its claims, of spoils a share, 
A precedent — God send but few, 
Exemplified in C — gnt — u. 

Insanity is understood, 
Wliose justice often — pulps of wood — 
The hangman's rope by far too good. 
Have nothing more withal to say, 
Let God forgive and mortals pray. 

Freedom's sky while lowering thus is, 
Thine angry clouds are belching curses. 
Wliose lightning flashes, spoils and j^l^mder, 
Their dividend — despotic thunder. 

Freedom's sun for thee hath set, 
For thee no dawn, no dewy jet 
The brow of Liberty to w^et. 
Darkness, darkness, — twilight never ; 
Thy sun hath set, perchance forever. 

A thing of story, mine and thine ; 

A thing of glory, how divine ; 

To perish with our pumpkin vine. 



PUMPKIN JUSTICE. 

Though pumpkin justice be our pride, 
Mercy, perchance may take a ride — 
Provided, if she never failed 
A-riding on some under rail. 



76 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

A vintage rail may freely ride, 
If back to back the rail astride. 
"With no collision on a track, 
While locomotives back to back ; 
No intimation, "backing out !" 
But pumpkin seeds arc far too stout. 
A " pumpkin some," and such are we, 
Each going home their friends to see. 

PUMPKIN HUB. 

And Pumpkindom, give thee a rub, 
The White-House of thy Avheel to scrub. 
Of Pumpkindom, the pumpkin hub. 
Whose spokes are sovereign States to fit, 
So lately forced the hub to split. 

But for its band and tire of steel, 
To never split or bursting peel. 
Of Saxon steel, and without flaw, 
From iron of the Norman law. 

Great hub, the centre of our nation, 
Yours of pumpkindom oblution ; 
Wheel of centralization ; 
Tire — the circuit of creation. 



KEDESTEUCTION. 

Our late unpleasantness hath found us 
Submissive to the hand that bound us ; 
No servile slaves, if aught of sin, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 77 

Was getting out — not getting in. 
From squally weather here about, 
Seems harder getting in than out. 

When fairly in, some greedy goose 
Squalks out — of certain spokes as loose. 
Then such a gabbling, nervous shock, 
Enough our pumpkin line to rock, 
And Babel's anti-silence mock. 

Some efforts then, the spokes to pin. 
Of splitting ends and wedging in. 
The pumpkin maul may vainly pound, 
The untired wedge will reckless bound. 
The remedy — will wonders cease — 
Is turpentine and pumpkin grease. 



PEESIDENT-ELECT. 

A pumpkin brute, of headless steers, 
Of thee I sing, and without fears ; 
A brute that has the longest ears 
Tail wisely trimmed with nutmeg shears, 
Sagacity, how very wise 
i Indolent pride the act implies 

i A switch to keep away the flies. 

The biggest brute sits on the stump, 
With little of the tail but rump. 
Elected by the longest jump. 
Of cattle in the herdless clump, 
A handle to the public pump. 



78 OUR PUMPKIN VINE 

Of weatlier, far prefers it Hazy^ 

Is neither indolent or lazy, 

Of reason, instinct, near the horn. 

Of wisdom, extinct, never born, 

With nutmeg shears but lightly shorn. 

His pride, if any, centred there 
He cultivates a mat of hair, 
For ease alone, about the rump, 
For ease upon the public stump. 

So tailless thus, and overwise 
Two-legged brutes keep off the flies, 
Or rather swarm like bees around 
For pastures rich and herding ground, 
So like the pumpkin pie, a sop 
Whose crusting lies below the top. 

The brute elect will not forget 
Of gratitude to be in debt 
For forming thus a seat to set on, 
A pleasant seat the stump to get on. 

A pleasant seat of all the world, 
A seat of moss by nature curled 
Of gratitude for ears alone. 
And not for horns so recent grown, 
Have horns a-plenty of my own. 

women's rights. 

That horns are not of native growth 
Will put my Darwin friend on oath ; 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 79 

That brutes among, where foe prevails 
The growth spontaneous is tails. 

Some muley cows within our shrine, 
lieyersing nature's laws divine, 
A-claiming rights that nature scorns. 
The privilege of wearing horns. 

Claiming the privilege, or near 
To goad as well as any steer ; 
Can jump as high, and blating then 
As any brute within the pen. 

Can raise their tails and even ears, 
As high as many horned steers. 
Can jump a fence ten railing higher, 
And backwards back, and never tire, 
In fact, can do all things but one 
That brutes with horns have ever done. 

This one thing is, and you may smile. 
With nothing bad or even vile. 
What God-like men do every day, 
And sinners vile, when going to pray, 
The one thing this, the heifer's maid 
A riding like grandades died. 
Convenient thus, in changing weather. 
For pantek 3 and horns together. 

One thing she cannot do, and when 
The Judgment till, nor even then, 
Better than animals called men. 
We leave the thus to mental sup 
Horns ever down, and evil tails ever up. 



80 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Acquiring rights without consent, 
That brutal steers could not prevent, 
A-wearing with no bad intent 
More outward show than ornament. 

Equality the cow salutes, 
Equality with other brutes, 
In articles, and without stitches, 
A substitute for nature's breeches. 



EQUAL RIGHTS. 

With equal rights, to walk or crawl, 
To climbing rise, or tumbling fall, 
The weaker vessel to the wall, 
The common destiny of all. 

And furthermore, my views will state 
Of strength or weakness, vainly prate 
Listen ! their shrieking hinges grate 
A-shouldering their ponderous weight, 
But hinges on the doors of fate. 
Their wall is built, and has no mate. 
Foundation — the eternal great. 
But instruments of divine skill. 
Working their great Creator's will. 

With virtue oiled, 'mid time's degrees. 
Open and close again with ease ; 
While otherwise the vicious learn 
That friction's heat expands to burn, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 81 

Wliile soiled by vice can never turn, 
No oil for vice in virtue's urn. 
Apparently to nature shock, 
A deadening, paralytic lock. 

Another door walled in I see 
The gateway to eternity. 
Its portal enter, ever free 
For virtue, even you and me. 
Enter ye in, while vice may squeeze 
But enter not as one who sells 
An orb of fire, to outward freeze. 

Enter ye in, and never fear, 
No grating shrieks the vicious hear, 
While hinges oiled by mercy's tear, 
Thy guardian angel ever near. 

Enter within the halls of fate, 
And enter by the portal gate ; 
For thee no burdened hinges grate, 
No orb of fire to see and freeze 
Of dissolution by degrees. 

Enter ye in, nor touch the gate 
Of ada:. ant of ponderous weight 
Nor portal wall bearing its freights 
So weilded by themselves — the fates. 

PUMPKIN HALL. 

And Pumpkin Hall, the nation's reel. 
Of Pumpkingdom the head and heel, 



82 OUE PUMPKIN VINE. 

The pumpkin self and pumpkin peel 
But felloes of tlie pumpkin wheel. 

Each revolution clicks a knot 
A winding thread ; the thread of what ? 
Of sovereign States, that with a rub, 
Goes whirling from it to its hub. 

Spun by the States, a fleeceless fold, 
Transferred to Pumpkin Hall, and sold 
By lobby thieves, who squandering hold 
The purse-strings of our pumpkin gold. 

Whose motive power, fanatic zeal, 
Propelling this obdurate reel. 
Corruption, too, perchance a drop, 
A bucket full of loyal slop. 
Whose friction may its motion stop. 
That horrid shriek will never cease 
Until its axle-tree makes peace 
With turpentine and pumpkin grease. 

Together bound, hub, felloes spokes. 
Of burden, beasts ; but freemen's yokes. 
Bound by an Anglo-Saxon tire. 
Prom Norman law, all clear of mire, 
Ee-cut and welded 'mid the ire 
Of revolution's hottest fire. 

Wrought, some cherised hopes to blight. 
Hub or mud-sill in a fight, 
Of brutal force where might makes right. 
If right or wrong, while waters run 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 83 

Big fishes eat tlie little ones. 
That cause isju^t, successful past 
That conquers first and conquers last. 

Great Pumpkin Hall, of pumpkin little, 

With marble stalls, flooded with spittle. 

Cigars exhausted, alone rumps 

Of former greatness — noble stumps — 

Alike in Pumpkin Hall we see 

But shadows of their majesty. 

Where horned brutes, so fed on clover 
Blate and bawl their pastures over, 
Kept in motion by a drover. 
Engraved upon its marble walls 
In cypher, may as well the scrawls, 
For sovereign brute so far remote. 
For sovereign brutes so like a goat, 
That cannot tell for whom they vote. 

If telegraph they cannot tell it. 
The telephone may vainly swell it, 
The sovereign brute can only swell it. 
It matters not how lightnings speed it, 
The sovereign- brute will never heed it. 
That cannot spell, much less, read it. 

That raise their tails whenever read, 
Like canvas high above their head; 
An indication how the speech — 
Alike the owls to only screech — 
A bnital sovereign's heart to reach. 



84: OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Conclusive evidence, indeed, 
Our pumpkins fruit, and even weed — - 
Sure pumpkins nice from very greed 
Have prematurely gone to seed. 

The pumpkin reel, and pumpkin hub, 
Where bleating cattle paw for grub, 
Blating, and their brands a picking. 
Late scientific mode of pricking, 
Of pawing dirt, and tallest kicking. 

"Will modest call it moral whoreing, 
Of progress how, and and moral goring, 
Together with some other trick is 
Where oil and water freely mixes. 

Now having done with pumpkindom, 
Will pull the muffle from the drum, 
Will skip a line, as will be seen. 
And give you something rather green. 
What else to do my fevered letter 
Is dying sick for something better, 
Disease, I think, tape-worm or tetter. 



THE LOBBYS. 

The so-called ladies fill the loboies, 
There's where the work is done — the job is; 
There financial schemers wander. 
There the pumpkin money squander. 
There the s}T:en-songster's lip is. 
There the shoulder and the hip is, 
The pumpkin faro-banking chip is. 



OtJR PUMPKIN VINE. 85 

Whose handkerchief perfumed with brandy, 

Pumpkin wine and pumpkin candy 

Ushers in the diamond dandy, 

And as many devil's imps, 

As there are devil-parlor-pimps. 

Where diamond rings with outward glow 
And pearls, that ocean cannot know 
The shells from whence these ulcers grow. 
Shed lustre on the furbelow. 

While wisdom's bulls below admire, 
The glories of celestial fire, 
Emblazoning the story higher. 

But polished tools — those ruby lips, 
But instruments — those matchless hips, 
For fashioning commercial ships. 
We judge of cargoes by their trips ; 
Of workmen, only by their chips. 

No dream is this, the heifer, bull, 
Here wear the horns developed full ; 
To blate as loud and wires pull. 
As any other horned brute, 
If cow or heifer may salute. 

No question here to heifer rights. 
Of pantaletts, knee-buckle tights 
Of calfskin made, and without stitches, 
A substitute for nature's breeches. 



86 OUR PUMPKIN TINE. 

The die is cast, the deed is done, 
Both pantaletts and horns are one. 
No need of telegraphic wire. 
Nor telephone, with smiles or ire, 
Whose handkerchief is full of fire. 

A spur to cut, a gaff to bleed, 
A whip to lash, a tear to plead. 
For compromise — a hoe to weed. 

A bag of gold for scoundrels free, 
A feather butt for you and me. 
No Darwin air the cup within. 
Where heads and tails together win. 



SPIRITUAL. 

A power there is so doubtless true. 
That guides the hand of me and you ; 
Kecorded in the book of fates 
That guides the pen within the slates. 

Call it by any name you please — 
Magnetism, if at your ease ; 
Animal, will doubtless shoot. 
Being the greater portion brute. 

A gem within its hocus-pocus, 

A mystery within its focus ; 

A mystery — cannot explain 

A mystery — for lack of brain. 

A gem within its case, nor view it, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 87 

The artifice, cannot see through it. 
On humbug sea, a wizard craft, 
AVhose jib and mainsail far abaft ; 
So far abaft, the rudder near. 
That reason's helmsman cannot steer. 
Whose gem is safely stored below, 
Kept, seemingly, for outward show ; 
Seen in the cabin's black-art hall, 
Seen only through the black-art wall. 

Virtues, if any, virtue's hint. 
So doubtless all the virtues in't. 
Tortured into the showman's role, 
Humbugs, vitality and soul. 

That magnetism may devour. 
Tortured by a magic power, 
By a hocus-pocus craft. 
Mainsail and jib ever abaft ; 
Bewitching thus, the silly dupe, or 
By the magic of a stupor. 

Transformed of late, a shapeless scow, 

"With rudder transferred to its bow, 

Thereby obstructing reason's plow. 

Have got the thing turned round to me, 

The bowsprit where the stern should be, 

The rudder but an axle tree. 

So fashioned precious freight to guide, 

A beast to carry it or ride. 

To plunge a wreck, to rise or fall, 

'Neath indignation's spurning squall. 



88 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

A SCOW. 

A scow went down, with all, a strain. 
A gem went clown and np again, 
Came np nnsoiled and witliont stain, 
A beacon on the surging main — 
A beacon ever to remain 
A warning to like wizard craft : 
Mainsail and jib ever abaft. 

BRUTAL. 

That man is brute, the fact condenses 
Both vice and virtue, his defenses 
More often putrid, loathsome, rinses, 
A-leaving gaps in Freedom's fences. 

Sweet morsels in our mouths to roll. 
Corrupted ballot-box and poll. 
Transformed a slave, the matter hence is 
A loss of liberty and senses. 

That man is beast, no brutal doubt ; 
With horns apparently about, 
And muley-kine to show the clout. 
All right just where the matter ails. 
That clouts were ever made for tails. 

The difficulty is but the pin 
A rebel late, but without sin, 
Of getting out, but getting in. 
And even in, to seldom stick. 
"While heifer's art controls the trick? 
So otherwise inclined to prick. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 89 

So like a screw, or there about 
Can push it neither in nor out 
With pliant hands to gentle turn, 
To neither friction, heat, nor burn. 

A brute will kick the bucket over. 
That holds the cream, when fed on clover, 
While virtue with her robeless seam 
So stooping gathers up the cream. 

RELIGION. 

Faith, the sister ; Virtue, the brother : 
Religion naught, without the other. 
So blended, if the work is done 
A perfect faith and victory won. 

We worship what ? Or vainly plod 
A universal father, God, 
Faith — his attributes to believe. 
Virtue — that faith may not deceive. 
Faith and virtue thus are one 
In God the Father, and the Son. 

Whatever faith, with virtue blended, 
Is perfect, and cannot be mended. 
While Virtue, with beatic charms 
The falsity of Faith disarms. 

The Christian faith will never shun — 
Of diverse faiths, the only one 
Can stand the test beneath the sun — 
Disrobed of all surrounding vices 



90 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

And craft, that vice and virtue splices, 
With all their vain and worldly fixes, 
Where oil and water freely mixes. 

This faiiltless ship, the jewels' case, 
With ropes adjusted for the race, 
Both sail and rudder in their place, 
No scientific doubts of space. 

Whose ballast, truth ; and faith, its plow ; 
With hope suspended from its bow, 
With true men standing on its deck, 
A forlorn hope for every wreck. 

With reason's rudder — stern abaft, 
Wisdom to helmsman guide the craft, 
That ridicule may never harm ; 
Satire bleed, or logic charm ; 
While infidels may ride abaft 
But never manage virtue's craft. 

Tha sceptre, too, with roustabouts. 
Whose faith is only faithless scouts 
More doubtful than the faith it doubts. 

No danger of a capsize then 
Or running under ever, when 
The officers are God-like men. 

A ship thus rigged may tempests frown. 
The world defy, and virtue crown ; 
With time's last setting sun go down 
To rise again 'mid ages hoary. 
The brighest diadem in glory. 



OUE PUMPKIN VINE. 91 



MY PEN. 



Perchance its waste of pen and ink, 
Pardon a quill to never shrink 
From telling what to even think — 
To think the universe confusion, 
An optical, doubt illusion, 
A mental chaos and delusion. 
To verify its seeming truth. 
But mental fledgings of its youth 
To vanish with the sun of age. 
But dew-drops on its artless page. 

My lyre to chide, perchance astray 
Sweet little pet, will have her way. 
Will, therefore, give her time to play, 
My sportive pen a holiday. 

Cant. 
A conflict, such, but not with Hannah, 
Neither with the smoke Havana, 
Mythology, its defunct kings. 
Of ancient custom, defunct things. 
Sad relics of their whisky rings. 

A change of subject for all stages; 

A conflict such, the battle rages ; 

A war of spades for better wages ; 

A war of shovels and pickaxes, 

To commerce free from burdened taxes. 

The ocean make longer and deeper. 
Its billows chaining to a sleeper. 



92 OtJR PUMPKIN TINE. 

A conflict fable never found, 
Of running ocean under ground. 

The scene of conflict only then 

Have told thee once and again where 

Nicaragua and Darien's 

Two great commercial cattle pens, 

Where rogues in common have their dens, 

For renegades that commerce rears, 

For brutes, of late, with horns and ears, 



PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. 

The true philosophy of life 

To yield whenever useless strife. 

But foolishness, and useless pain 

To grieve for that we cannot gain. 

"With virtue clad and withal meekness, 

In duty firm, but never reckless. 

To show our strength and cover weakness. 

If bitterness our palates greet, 
Our best to make that bitter sweet. 
If striving, fail, but human lot 
To raise no tempest in the pot ; 
"We cannot blow it cold or hot. 
The tempest raised a wreck complete 
Yet real gall for seeming sweet. 

A proverb truer than split silk, 
A useless grieving for spilt milk, 
A grieving that the stick we whittle 
Should grow in size so very little. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 93 

Grieving the egg we swallow raw, 
To save the trouble of a thaw, 
The exercising of our jaw, 
May vegetate within our maw. 
Too servile yield — our tears to wit. 
Objects that we can never get. 
Better by far with trouble truces. 
Saving our tears for other uses. 

To slavish grieve about a letter, 
Thus implicate the harmless setter. 
Of foolishness, or even fret, or 
Grieve our pens can do no better. 

To satisfy our greed to gnaw, 
And swallow food we cannot chaw. 

Or chawing it, the bigger getting. 
Politeness would excuse our spitting, 
Uncommon courtesy while sitting. 
So palateness, our stomach stewing. 
Politeness would excuse our spewing. 



If striving, fail, while wisdom deems, 
Go with the current and the streams. 
We never can a current skim 
Whose waters are too shoal to swim. 

The overboilings of our pot. 
The sooner cooled by being hot, 
So, seemingly, that we are not 
At times, may justify our plot. 



94 OtJR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Hypocrisy is j-astified, 

That troubles steal and conquer pride. 

If angry words our feelings rile, 
Cover their surface with a smile, 
And ever smile, however mad. 
Apologize by being glad. 
Suffice, it ever good excuse 
To true politeness no abuse. 

Pleasures were to mortals given, 

A chalice from the vaults of heaven ; 

By use improper, ever gain 

The sources of each mortal pain. 

'Tis not the frost that kills the flowers, 
With it alone while tempests lower. 
Its frozen sap has lost its power 
Its milk of life is turning sour. 

The forest leaves are turning pale, 
'Tis not from terror of the gale. 
The forests ^Teck, or tempest wail ; 
Death rides upon the tempest's hail. 

Taking possession of the vale. 

'Tis thus with passion's stormy strife — 

The sequel of a stormy life. 



Reiterating all I've said. 

No questioning unfathomed led ; 

Too weak if not by passion bled, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 95 

To every life's emotion dead, 
Strike trouble's nail upon the head. 

If choice of implements we choose, 
Nor fancy nails, then be it screws. 
Whose power — the one a gentle strain, 
The other harsh — to split the grain. 
"Which of the two, as seeming best. 
Philosophy will manifest ? 

A moral from the source we drain. 
That pleasures are the source of pain ; 
So mellowed by a constant strife, 
The true philosophy of life. 

WHIPPING POST. 

Reform the brute, but never toast 
The virtues of a whipping-post. 
Where justice strides, let mercy lead, 
(I give this up — I must indeed). 
Perchance the mote, so eyer shy. 
May linger in thy perfect eye. 

Thy house of glass and neighbor ones. 
To keep about no useless stones. 
To view ourselves, not ears of asses, 
Through optics, ours, not other's glasses. 
Search well ourselves, of others first, 
Be merciful, and even just. 

A whipping-post the moral urges, 
Erected to the god of scourges ; 



96 OUB PUMPKIN VINE. 

A brutal god, if any, he — 

If god or goddess search for thee. 

No god for pumpkin-vine and me. 

The whipping-post of virtues vain, 
A brutal instrument — a stain 
Upon the progress of the hour — 
Sad relic it of brutal power. 
Its victims lay around by scores, 
With moral ulcers, putrid sores. 

The keenest instrument in vogue 
To lash a thief, or scourge a rogue. 
To save his soul the stain'less gash 
Inflicted by his virture's lash. 

A moral atmosphere impure. 
The whipping-post can never cure. 
All other instruments are trash. 
While satire's shaft is virture's lash. 

These gems of thought, though never mine, 
Some fruit may bear, and ever shine. 
The candle of our pumpkin vine. 



PEOGRESS. 

Progress, the while, with feathers shed, 
With spurs devoid of steel or lead. 
Controls her crowing mate, or duck 
By magic of her gentle cluck. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 97 

Language of the feathered nation^ 
The difficulty is translation. 
Instinct, so says the learned herd, 
Language of every beast and bird 
Alike alive, or long interred. 

Instinctive pride from bill to nails, 
Never subdued by horns or tails, 
A beast transformed from brutal kickings. 
To quite feed among her chickens. 
Besult of progress, perchance station. 
The progress of our pumjDkin nalion. 

"While armed with bills the hawk of spring, 
The only time a hawk can sing, 
Whose victim is progressive right. 
But for its film could see at night; 
Without the monkey's second sight. 

This brutal foe, of fowls the king. 
So ever watchful, feels the sting; 
And flapping of her mighty wing. 
An instrument that despots dread, 
More fatal than the rifle's lead — 
The mighty quills that progress shed. 



CANT. 

In such a conflict, awful this is. 
With maidless maids and maidless misses ; 
The fount of love, its venomed hisses. 
Surcharged its love with amorous kisses. 



98 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Enough to make a goddess lazy — 

Ulysses II. dying crazy — 

A conflict, not with land and water, 

But spades' and shovels' deathless slaughter, 

But Grecia with her classic daughters. 

The wrath of Jupiter to shun 
AVe'll seek Ulysses No. I., 
So long since buried with his gun. 
That he is dead, no brutal doubt. 
Leaving behind his breeches clout that 
Classic worshippers may shout at. 
Precisely where a clout should be, 
Covering for classic modesty. 

Wherever gone, I cannot say — 
More likely could no longer stay — 
A secret to the Judgment Day. 
Perchance, among Elysian host ; 
Tartarus, or among the roast. 
It matters not the number who, 
We scrawl this up for No. II. 

While Jupiter, of progress slow, 

The God of Gods, above, below, 

Ulysess, through Havana curled, i 

Proclaims his mandate to the world. i 

A conflict such, were never found. 
No running oceans under ground. 
With him that sailed the world around, 
Recording in his sketch-book wonders. 
Of godless brutes and godless blunders, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 99 

Godless lightnings, godless thunders. 
How Jupiter with lightning plays 
At present, as in ancient days. 

A-riding it, but not astraddle — 
A side-way, on his god-like saddle , 
Bare-back, perchance, like Chaos dad, 
Making his rump a saddle-pad. 

In anger with almighty fist. 
Gives lightning form, or chain a twist 
By Yulcan formed, and with all strain, 
Who never gave it twist or chain ; 
Who, hurling while in such a manner. 
As never hit his favorite Hannah. 

PUMPKIN GOD. 

No questioning the realms of sense, 
A culminating in the dense 
Unfathomed Omnipotence. 
Or culminating in a raid, 

Judging developments by shade ; 

Unreal objects, real made. 

With reason's light, to flick'ring aid. 

That science never may defy, 

Or skepticism falsify, 

This flickering light ; and skeptics doubt 

Can never blow the candle out. 

As shadows are substances, shade, 



100 OUR PUMPKIN VINE 

Though real, of another grade, 
With outlines all of perfect parts, 
It's filling up perfected arts : 
God from — the panorama starts ! 

Perfection of its parts assumed. 
Absence of the fact presumed, 
As circumstances prove it, hence, 
In logic, legal evidence. 

If shadows prove a substance, must 
Not shadows prove a substance first ; 
If substance first, the great Creator 
Whose shadow, but the finite creature. 

Then name it what, submissive nod. 
Omnipotence, the Creature's God. 
By logic only, plead my cause, 
Cause and effect are Nature's laws. 

'Tis perfect foolishness and more. 
But sophistry, an ulcered sore. 
Does two and two make six or four ? 
Then scratch thy pate of calf and try, 
Do figures ever tell a lie ? 

Perchance alone, division's tricks. 

Addition will thy status fix — 

Does two and three perchance make six ? 

Why, you can see it at a glance. 

The proof of Deity is chance. 

If doubtful still, then tree a 'coon, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 101 

And bark tliy dogs against tlie moon, 
Thy senses spurn unless you tree it, 
And London is, though never see it. 

Facts are theories digestions. 

Of mature owls wisdoms suggestions, 

A-keeping fools from asking questions. 

Still skeptical, or thereabout ? 
Cover thy hips with wisdoms clout. 
Whose pin goes neither in nor out, 
No use of diapers about. 

These atmospheres are fearful things, 
I hear the flapping of their wings 
A-thrashing fools ; but wisdom stings 
Demoralizing corrupt rings, 
Dethroning queens and crowning kings. 

Invite you, gentlemen, abaft. 
Aboard of Virtue's burdened craft, 
Whose influences never fear, 
Be cautious of the rudder near. 
Thy magnetism cannot steer. 

Be seated, gentlemen, still aft 
Among the owls that wisdom wafts. 
To ruralize and mental prate, 
If four and two makes six and eight. 

Down, Lucifer ! come down 
A round, or move too high 
Above Jehovah's crown, 



102 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Creative powers to try. 

From notliingness or chance 
Thy glory to enhance, 
Archangels to defy, 
Aping God's majesty. 

So far above the ladders base. 

Both heaven and hell's unmeasured space. 

Let angels tread and fly apace 

Their pathway to the realms of grace. 

Of saint redeemed with glory's crown 
A climbing up, but never down. 
Whose rounds the earth above that swells 
The heavenly hosts, but downward hells 
Whose sufferings let Milton tell. 
I think I can of brimstone smell. 

A skeleton of former self, 

That progress lays upon the shelf; 

To ashes doomed to quiet rest 

In Milton's urn and Byron's breast. 



BRUTAL. 

I have a secret to impart, 
Exceeding far all brutal art. 
And give it freely, nothing more. 
While, notch upon thy stick a score, 
Its usefulness will doubtless find 
In dealings with the brutal kind. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 103 

To never watch the lion's jaw, 
Or even watch his brutal paw, 
Ever before filling in his maw, 
Giving a sign to never fail, 
A. wriggle of his brutal tail. 

Be watchful, like as signs of drouth, 
No place for hands the lion's mouth, 
But ever in, however stout. 
Can seldom ever get it out. 

Two-legged brutes will never fail 
Before they bite, or angry pale. 
To make a motion with their tail. 
Be vigilant, and never fear, 
And keep thy hands about the rear. 

Jove formed us brutes, our heads in halves 
Front of the ears for suckling calves. 
The head behind, and neck above, 
For vengeance unrestained, and love. 
Let morals mourn and progress hush, 
A perfect mass of classic mush. 

Love unrestrained to tempests stride 
Upon the sea of passion ride, 
No polar star of hope to guide. 
No helmsman near so tempest tossed, 
Upon its angry billows lost. 

To rise no more, let demons tell 
Its awful doom, and ring its knell. 
No Elysian fields to roam for them, 



104 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

No stitcli in glory's spotless hem, 
So doubtless lost and gone to swell 
Tartarus' ranks — the classics' hell. 



BRUTAL. 

Be angry not, don't satire spurn, 
Let virtue's lash greet thee in turn 
If angry must, then let it pale, 
Virtue, the while, with paper flail 
And shaft, the mighty venomed quills, 
Thy brutal back shall beat until 
Thy pleading cries shall Mercy hear, 
Who ever lingers sorrowing near. 

However thick of brass thy mail. 
However brutal, you must quail, 
The moral forces must prevail. 

PUMPKIN IDOL. 

An idol is, to briefly state. 
An object that we venerate. 
Regardless form, features, or fuss 
Of powers superior to us. 

An idol is, and if you tease 
An idol or not, as you please ; 
An object formed, a faith to fit. 
Or, otherwise, a chisel's hit. 
Artistic brush or poet's wit. 
An idol, if you worship it. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 105 

An idol is a tiling of trade. 

We reverence a doll as made, 

A thing of beauty, light and shade, 

The counterpart of that we love, 

In spheres below and spheres above. 

Fashioned to fit creation's waist. 
Its every freak of fashion's taste. 
For comeliness, or lack, your free, 
Seek statue ideality. 



IDEALITY. 

The ideal inspires my strain. 
Ideas all proceed from brain, 
The first to act, last to sustain, 
To guide the mil, the nerves control 
The immortality of the soul. 

A perfect god, we can but woo it, 
Imperfect man, we cannot do it ; 
A perfect God, imperfect man. 
To only do the best we can. 

Books are useful only when 
Filled with the brains of wiser men, 
Species of sarcophagus pen. 
And otherwise an ample store 
Of ancient and of modern lore. 

Compiles, dissects, and also claims 

The standard, giving thoughts and names, 



106 OUR PUMPKIN YINE. 

Books to dissect, divide tliy skill : 
Drink deep the fountain, sip tlie rill 
For wisdom, drink the catract. 
But never whence its waters back. 

To be more clear, elucidate, 

To never scrath another's pate, 

To cleanse thy mental comb with care, 

But never through another's hair. 

The truth is evident in part. 

The horse is got behind the cart. 

Fabrics of thought, thus formed from shelves. 

Seldom, if ever, write themselves. 

So often thus we mental sup, 

To find our castles wrong end up. 

Search for thyself, on matter raid. 
The mental tree of life, its shade : 
This is the way that men are made, 
With matter raw, an ample store 
To manufacture yet a score. 

Creating man, though, is no trade 
As dust our shelves, or ply the spade, 
With outlines formed, divinely chaste, 
Filled by thy will's creative taste. 
The facts are these, regardless shelf, 
Man's greater half is formed by self. 

Seek truth for truth, nor time defer, 
The greatest minds may wisely err 
As birds that spurn ambrosial bower, 



OUB PUMPKIN VINE. 107 



A-liiimming o'er some lonely flower, 
A-gatlieriiig sweets — how great the power. 

A theme sublime, ideal shod 

To manhood gave a very god ; 

And progress, too, with some of brain. 

This great and living truth sustain. 

With reason none, and love-like blind, 
Inspiring element of mind. 
Of passion void, it sits alone. 
Embodiment of life, its throne. 

Death may stifle, disease improves 

Its motion, though through different grooves. 

Perfection still, but, alone death. 

May check it for the lack of breath. 

Though theory, by force of wdll, 
And dogma from its sacred till, 
Keserves it for a future drill. 
The victim for some other mill. 

These little matters can't control, 

I claim but one immortal soul, \ 

And must believe, if reason can, 

The immortal part of man. 

We wisdom have, and only when 
We leave corruption's classic den, 
And gather from earth's vilest spittle, 
The knowledge that we know so little. 



108 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 



BEAUTY. 

And Yenus, too, of god-like charms, 
To linger in her classic arms, 
Amid perfumes, Havana, curled. 
With nothing like a flag iinfurled, 
A-sailing round this mighty world, 
Having no bone, nor like, to chaw, 
Will tell you what Ulysses saw. 

A goddess fair, whom gods salute 
With honor, this majestic brute ; 
An offspring of the briny wave. 
The wave, oh, no ! on it to roam 
An offspring of its lily foam. 

No horns upon her broAV so fair — 
No marble can her beauty share — 
Of alabaster, none ! how rare. 
A form that chisels vainly vie 
To execute, and striving — die. 
And die of what? To grief evade. 
Of substance none, or even shade — 
Of horror for the thing they made. 

No instruments for chisels arms, 
Or modelling clay for beauties charms. 
To beauty ape (hush, painter, hush !) 
Unarmed for thee is beauties brush. 

Chisels, avaunt ! its ray may see 
The sun itself is not for thee ; 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 109 

Whose light or shade may freeze or warm, 
May utilize, but never form. 

Brushes, avaunt ! The moon may shine. 
Thy senses steal — (it is not thine) — 
Whose rays so pale, may imitate. 
May utilize, but not create. 

Reserve these powers, by Jove, alone, 
In majesty upon his throne ; 
Mankind had long and vainly strove 
To recreate the pride of Jove. 

When Jupiter to Neptune gave 
An instrument — to ocean brave — 
A trident to control the wave. 
To waive it thrice, to vainly try, 
Whose billows rise like mountains, high, 
To angry lash both earth and sky. 

Chaos, as if disgorging earth. 
Or giving to a mountain birth ; 
The tempest howls, and thunders roar, 
A wave is pregnant — nothing more. 

Creation ! the immaculate ! 
Fresh forms of beauty to create ; 
A shadow — see it through the spray — 
More like a star of twinkling ray. 
Obscured by morning's rising mist. 
Of seeming life, who may resist. 



110 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Developing, I see its form — 
Sill, indistinctly for the storm — 
With flowing locks — more perfect now ; 
Distinct her form and God-like brow. 

A-riding on the billows' dome, 
An offspring of its lily foam. 
Withal, a brute, that all adore — 
A beautiful, majestic whore. 

Reader, beware ! look well around — 
Be vigilant to search the ground, 
Perchance, some modern Yenus found, 
Some moral prostitute, profound. 

Progress, the order of the day, 
Admits no coldness, nor delay. 
Search well the jet and amber locks, 
Where mulititudes to worship flock. 

The ritual within its shirt — 

The furbelow about the flirt — 

The class within, where fashion crimps, 

The favored pet, and parlor pimps. 

Mid gloves of kid and Yirtue's imps. 

Search steeples well, both far and nigh, 
That rear their summits to the sky, 
But seldom in their basement halls, 
Virtue is absent, making calls. 



While Yenuses, a-plenty, round. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. Ill 

A-kneeling on the naked ground ; 
But not, perchance, the so-called whores, 
But easy virtue, by the scores 
A-kneeling on its marble floors. 

Trace Virtue's footsteps as they go, 
To palace high or cottage low ; 
Seeking for jewels where they grow, 
Among the vilest filth of earth. 
Being in full of Virtue's worth — 
Giving the purest jewels birth. 

Give thee another bone to chaw — 
For lack of cooking, give it raw — 
"Will tell you what Ulysses saw, 
Becorded by the cruel fates. 
Within the paper prison gates. 
His sketch-book in the victim w^aits, 
For freedom from his book of dates, 
Will give it to thee under sail. 
With nothing of the teapot gale. 



MERCY. 

Was shown a monument that rears. 
Its head high over Bunker's spheres, 
Engraved upon no horns of steers ; 
No breed of asses without ears, 
No useful pair of nutmeg shears. 

Wet ^^itll the dew that ages drop, 
No pumpkin poised upon its top. 



112 OUR PUMPKIN VINE 

A single wreatli — but, reader, stop, 
Be silent, liusli ! a footstep nears 
'Tis Mercy's footstep, bathed in tears. 

Ever iinconscious of her power. 
So doubtful of the pardoning hour, 
Trembling the while, modest, alert, 
Seeking for gems amid the dirt. 

O'erleaping pride, corruption's fence. 
Conceited wealth, and arrogance. 
Seeking for gems, among the rinse. 
In dens of filth, where vipers crawl. 
For gems of beauty, great and small. 

Often, in pensive mood, profound. 
Gazing on the jewels, crowned. 
For jewels that she never found. 
But brilliants oft her ardor cools. 
To deck the brow of gaping fools. 

She holds no scales, though Justice may, 
Big grains to vice and virtue way, 
A tear-drop in the scales to fall, 
O'erbalancing, outweighing, all. 
She holds the balance of the hour, 
(No dark'ning clouds may angry lower) 
Of moral and progressive power. 

Justice and mercy differ slight : 
At times whatever wrong is right ; 
At others right is often wrong. 
So fiction sayeth, and my song. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 113 

Thus conscience whispers, don't infer 
That Mercy's tear can never err. 
Perchance the while we mental sup, 
All filled with air, like Darwin's cup, 
I have the castle wrong end up, 
The horse's head behind the crup. 

The ancient Pagans, to their shame — 
(Though ignorance needs seldom blame) — 
Erected no statues to her name ; 
Knew something of the beautiful : 
The rising moon, oft now in full, 
Nor Mercy knew — perfection, near — 
The power concealed within a tear 
Whose ruling element the steer. 

Though doubtless felt the sacred flame, 
But gave it neither form or name. 
For Progress left, to queenly sit. 
The Chriatian faith alone was fit 
To realize — develope it. 

Perchance, unlike friend Darwin's cup, 

I have the castle right side up — 

Have caught the monkey, minus tail ; 

Have caught him with my paper flail ; 

A paper weapon, oh, how frail ! 

Though lacking substance, bone and back. 

Listen ! I think I hear it crack ! 

*'A straw that breaks the camel's back." 

Have caught him, with the tail detached — 
A full-grown monkey, ready hatched — 



J-14: OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Pin-featliers none, witlial a slit 
To gentlemen of fortune fit. 

For gentlemen a graceful splice, 
Befitting well our hero nice. 
If tail it must, then be it mine, 
The tail end of our pumpkin-vine. 

CANT. 

Has gone perchance to Mexico, 
Where gentlemen of fortune go, 
To mix the pumpkin with alspice. 
A breed of mongrels, oh, how nice ! 
Such perfect brutes — progressive need- 
Bastards that never knew our greed : 
A lemon from a pumpkin seed. 

No ship canal mixed up with it. 

That railroad fevers seldom fit ; 

More likely rip, or even split. 

Nor running ships on a rail 

Or over Darien to sail. 

Or sailing through the air with ships, 

Over Niagara, hourly trips. 

Defiance at the project flings 

Its veto, in the shape of wings. 

Our Pumpkingdom, — once very wise, — 

Granted no succor nor supplies 

For ships to navigate the sides. 

A subsidy is all we need. 

The outgrowth of our pumpkin weed. 



OUll PUMPKIN VINE. Hi 

A subsidy, tlien, bo it tliiue. 
Kever within our pumpkin rhine 
The tail end of our pumpkin-vine. 

DISUNION. 

Hark! a murmuring of the breeze ! 
Behold, it shakes the tallest trees ! 
Lo, the dark spirit of the storm ! 
It is disunion's direful form ! 
Avert, ye powers, the fearful launch 
That tears up forest, root and branch. 

Child of freedom, guard ye well, 
Ere ye ignite the brand of hell, 
Kemember well, thou orphan fair, 
That never knew a mother's care, 
That suckled only nature's breast; 
Thou one, less favored than the rest, 
Thou nursling of the stormy wild, 
That thou art but a foundling child. 

Bear ye no offering to the flame 
Of sectional prejudice and shame. 
At Washington's stronghold and keep— 
There let Freedom's daughters weep — 
From thence, send one united flame 
To God, to Liberty, and Fame. 

Ye are the footballs, kicked of strife ; 
Oh, be not first to bear the knife, 
Lift ye no fratricidal hand 
To scatter terror through the land. 



116 OUR PUMPKIN YINE. 

Impervious to a foreign foe, 
Oh, never strike a coward blow ; 
But let thy baleful blade, so bare 
Wreak its dread vengeance in theair. 

Behold those scattered twigs of ash ; 

Detached, how feeble, powerless, brash — 

Unite them firm, and with a twist, 

A giant effort may resist. 

'Tis thus that States, united, can 

Eesist the combined powers of man. 

Tyrants have sent it from afar, 
Disunion's breach and country's jar. 
Already they, like vultures, bold, 
From their high cliff and rocky hold. 

And watchful, too, with Argus eye 
Intently — the revolving die — 
With lightning's speed they wing their way, 
To seize a noble, powerless prey. 

Shall Mississippi bar her gates 

That drain a hundred sovereign States, 

Sever her mighty tide in twain 

Whose home, the mountain and the main ! 

Bobbed thus of her proportions fair 

To give or take a bootless share ? 

Yain man, when shall impiety 
Cease to importune destiny ; 
How long shall thy delusion last ; 
When gather wisdom from the past ? 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 117 

Has love of power thus grown of late — 
Of that vast magnitude and weight — 
That in our country's balanced-cup 
Power goes down, or country up — 
Is love of country banished, fled ; 
Or sleeps it with the mighty dead ? 

Oh fear ye not, ye slothful drones, 

That tear her flesh and shun her bones — 

Ye rashful, of vindictive ire. 

Like finedish Nero, to admire 

The torch that set old Eome on fire, 

And see her in a blaze expire. 

Oh ye, of wild, fanatic zeal. 

With no tribunal for appeal 

But the drawn dagger and the steel? 

No constitution but a flaw. 

Than God or man's, a higher law. 

Fear ye no retributive hand. 
To sink thy dark assassin band ? 
No immortal, undying shame, 
A coward's brand, a traitor's name. 

Sink, cowards, sink! This be thy ban! 
Sink, traitors, sink ; weak shades of man ! 
Sink deep in thine unhonored grave, 
That dare a country's weal to brave. 

Let Europe, deaf to orphan moans ; 
And Asia, with her reeling thrones ; 
And Afric, bathed in servile gore ; 



118 OUE PUMPKIN VINE. 

Sink, and sink, to rise no more. 

But, let Columbia, cliild of God, 
Never feel oppression's rod. 
Undying, let our motto be : 
Union, to tliee ; though bound, yet free. 

Else, spirits of the valiant dead, 
Whom 'neath Jacinto's banner bled ; 
Who, from Alamo's turrets hoary. 
Sped your upward flight to glory ! 

Descend, ye braves ; arise, ye dead ; 
Ye, whom on Bunker's summit bled ; 
Ye, whom 'neath Erie's darkling wave 
Sank deep, thrice deep, in glory's grave. 

Heave, ocean, heave thy mighty bed. 
From thy dark caverns bear thy dead, 
Who for a country vaguely fell. 
Late, on the very verge of hell. 

Is there no patriot yet to bleed ; 

No saints in heaven's high arch to plend ; 

Is there no hope between the grave 

For Liberty and Freedom, save 

The valiant foe and fearless brave. 

Freedom ! where's now thy resting place ? 
Oh, hast thou left the Saxon race 
Forever, thine adopted home. 
For thine immortal native Home. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 119 

Lo ! her miglity pinions wave 

Higli o'er St. Peter's gloomy nave ; 

Behold, slie fans the glittering crest 

That hurls an arrow at her breast ; 

Well aimed, the treacherous, bounding dart. 

Pierced her proud foeman to the heart. 

Pulaslds, are there none to bleed ? 
Did Cass and Webster vainly plead ? 
Is it in vain that foes unite 
To quell disunion's baleful blight ? 
Oh, spare our mother, heaven ! Arrest 
The blow that's leveled at her breast. 

Bise, fairest daughter of the morn. 
Our country's pride, and Europe's scorn ; 
As ever guard Fame's portal way, 
As ever wake the glorious day. 

Rise in thy strength — if succor need — 
There's yet a million hearts to bleed. 
As freely drain their crimson tide 
As that which poured from Warren's side. 

Sink, mountains, sink, and oceans flood ; 
Sink, patriots, sink, and sink in blood ; 
Sink fervently, at her command. 
But let the glorious Union stand. 

INVOCATION. 

Is there a power beyond the skies — 
A God that lives when nature dies — 



120 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Is tliere an outstretched arm to save — 
To shield the virtuous and the brave ? 

"Whate'er thy name — thy unknown form- 
Be it glad sunshine, shower, or storm ; 
Be it the god of Horeb's rock 
That watered Israel's thirsting flock ; 

Or Calvary, from its summit hurled 
Salvation to a dying world. 
Ye, one and all, I now invoke, 
Ye powers, avert disunion's stroke. 

Still let our common country roll, 

As undivided as the soul 

That fills yon boundless realms of space, 

Where hope alone may faintly trace 

Through blue expanse, with eager eye, 

What vague conjecture may descry — 

Columbia's proud destiny I 



ALEMO. 

Dids't see that ancient house of stone — 
Battles there for freedom won ; 
Each rock cemented in its walls — 
Each ghost a-wandering through its halls- 
Each blast that through its ruins rave — 
Each legend of its fearless brave — 
Its precious dust we proudly claim 
As dear to liberty and fame. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 121 

Let not the chiseled hands of art, 
Profanely to its walls impart 
An instrument that may erase 
Its impress rude, of ancient days. 

With fashions or forms bedecked, 
By rude hands of an architect. 
Alone in glory let it stand, 
The proudest relic of our land. 

She that has breasted countless storms, 
That shrouded late a thousand forms, 
She that laughs at the tempest's wail. 
Smiles serene at the awful gale. 



She so silent, still, and mute. 

Doth of Eternity salute 

Our wondering eyes and listening ears 

In language of the bygone years. 

Speaking to us mth tongue of gloom — 
In language borrowed from the tombs— 
Of records mute unfathomed, deep 
Of ages that, forgotten, sleep. 
Oh, let those ancient walls be spared. 
So long to time and tempest bared. 



Spare her, oh, human, in thy rage 
Spare, for the majesty of age, 
Spare her, ye seasons, cold and heat. 
Ye storms, surcharged with rain and sleet. 



122 OVU PUMPKIN VINE. 

Spare her, lightnings, thy vivid flash — 
Spare, nor let thy bolts her crash. 
Spare her, ye elements in trust 
And human policy, the worst. 
Oh let thy sacred walls be spared 
So long to time and tempest bared. 

Its history, how vainly tell its 
Victims too, how vainly swell 
To liberty a passing knell. 
And freedom's last expiring knell 
When Crockett, brave, and Bowie fell, 
And many more as fearless, brave, 
Borne on by freedom's jeweled wave 
To glory through its antique nave. 

Though seeming dead, they're living still, 
Urned by pure art's exquisite skill, 
In marble — matters not if ill — 
Whose vital spark controls my quill. 

Here freedom's flag, born to command. 
Defended by a gallant band. 
Went down beneath a Greaser's hand — 
To rise again in gathered glory — 
To live in song a breathing story, 
A waving o'er her turrets hoary. 
Freedom's bulwark, unerring guide 
Upon commotion's soulless tide. 

Purged with fire, they'll remain 
Triumphant o'er the Greaser vain. 
Unconscious of a single stain. 



OUR PUMPKIN VIXE 123 

OUR PILGRIM FATHERS. 

Our fathers to this country came, 
A wilderness, in virtue's name ; 
As pilgrims meek, unknown to fame. 
Buying its virgin soil and sod, 
And paying doAvn in coin of God. 

For air we breathe and water drink, 
The privilege to freely think — 
Without a scratch of pen and ink 
Contracted in commotion's flood — 
And sealed it with their precious blood. 

History records a claim 

To freedmen ever dear, and fame. 

Miles Standish's unsullied name ; 

A Joshua that led the host 

Of God, and without mortal boast. 

To conquer Plymouth's rugged coast. 

Who measured not their sabres length — 

God was their trust and only strength. 

Leaving a country ever dear. 

But for its brutes, (to devils near) 

From glory, brutes that never fell, 

The vilest instruments of hell. 

Braving the dangers of the deep 

AYhere tempests howl and mermaids weep, 

Natures strongest hold and keep. 

As eagles, that concussions mock. 
Unconscious of commotion's shock, 



124 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Around their eyrie fearless flock, 
To empire poise on Plymouth Rock. 

With virtue clad and wisdom shod, 
Brave to a fault, they meekly plod 
Their way, through faith, in Judah's rod, 
Israel in its triune God 
Their only law and gospel leaf, 
Unlettered and appeletish brief — 
Executor and local chief. 

Our father's fought, and all the same — 
The savage fought to only tame, 
Until the British lion came. 
Then fighting, how, let devils tell ! 
Like devils fight, where devils dwell. 

To utilize its very fire. 
Expressive of their fearful ire. 
They fighting, bagged their little game, 
Fighting for country, not for fame. 

The valleys heave their maiden ire, 
Their hills, betrothed, have caught the firCo 
Oh, quell, who may, when such conspire. 
Their sires, the hoary mountains pause 
And gnash with rage, their granite jaws. 
Combined they strive, combined they vie, 
Belching their thunders through the sky. 

Perchance a dream, a midnight nap. 
Where sleep and death together lap 
The ocean to their fame, a drop, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 12^ 

Whole numbers to where factions stop, 
No ladder ever climbed its top. 

Wonld'st thou their value emulate, 
Be vigilant, and never wait, 
Span glory's ladder, to its pate, 
Think of the ocean's matchless gem. 
Of countless numbers, glory's hem, 
Of Fame's immortal diadem. 
The Sinai of our moral world, 
Whose lightning flashes freedom hurled. 
The climax of perfection furled. 

Descend, would'st ; from glory raid, 
Exchanging substances for shade ; 
Thy footsteps guard, and fearful climb 
Else falling, fracture glory's limb. 

This thing called glory, spite of trim. 
Its giddy heights have vainly climb. 
We seldom reach its lowest limb. 
Though not for me ; glory for thee. 
I seldom rise my eye to see 
Its blazon on eternity. 
Therefore no spade for me. 

'Tis ever thus, when glories fade, 
tinostentatious, void parade. 
Its resting place the quiet glade. 
And trouble for the absent spade. 

Glories come but seldom stay, 

As morning light with breaking day. 



■^2^ OUR iPUMPKIl^ VINE. 

To linger with its lingering ray 
And with its shadow pass away. 



REBECCA. 

Thou art an angel, well we know, 

By deeds of mercy given ; 
That mercy we to others show 

Alone fits us for Heaven. 

Mercy, a tear that angels shed 

The essence of delight, 
"When from this dark world they sped. 

To realms of endless light. 

'Twas thee, fair lady, caught the gem, 

Ranging creation through — 
Poised upon the violet's stem 

Like drops of morning dew. 

And wear it ever to thy breast. 

No gem of outward glare. 
But that which cheers the wretchedest — 

The victim of despair. 

'Twas thee that soothed a father's woes — 

Of friends and fortune shorn ; 
"Who quailed not 'neatli misfortune's blows, 

Or the world's cold, bitter scorn. 

When sinking 'neath the weight of years 
And many a fearful storm; 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 127 

Tlie world for liim had frozen tears, 
But, daughter, thine were warm. 

Warm, like summer's dewy even*, 

When wintry blasts are gone. 
Dripping from the cloudless heaven 

Nature's fair robe upon. 

Where were his sons, to manhood grown. 

Beared by his pious care ? 
Gone ! but heeding not his dying moan — 

But, daughter, thou were there. 

With power that angels only know. 

To mortal seldom given. 
To soothe a spirit while below. 

And watch its flight to heaven. 



NACOGDOCHES. 

There is a lovely little spot. 

Two brooklets bright between. 
Whose banks are crowned with wildwood grot, 

And verdure ever green. 

Light bounds in peaceful mood thy rills 

'Tween rocks of grotesque forms. 
Till angrily the distant hills 

Send down their flood of storms. 

Now wild commotions rear their heads ; 
Its rocks are rent in twain ; 



128 OUR PUMPKIN TINE. 



Hurled in liuge fragments from tlieir bed 



All headlong to the main. 



'O 



These are thy gems, thy proudest e'en, 

So terrible and mild ; 
Spirits, they, of bordering scene, 

So lovely, and so wild. 

Could we but draw the veil aside 

Of time, and time's egress, 
And view thee in thy native pride 

And undecked loveliness. 

Then thy virgin skies, how bright, 

Thy lilies, oh, how wild, 
Thy streams — a liquid flood of light. 

Thy breezes, bland, how mild ! 

But time hath paled thy fairest flowers. 

Tainted thy purest breeze. 
Scathed with fire thy wildwood bowers, 

Laid low thy forest trees. 

These scenes with time have passed away. 

Yet still with breezes bland, 
Thy flowers are seeming bright and gay, 

As fresh from God's own hand. 

The forest still hath greenwood shade. 

And fountains to allure ; 
If true there is a new earth made, 

That earth to us is pure, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 129 

Still blooms Columbia's tree of pride ; 

Clan Alpine's could not boast 
A broader shade at noon-time tide, 

'Mid all lier piney host. 

As still in majesty the oak 

Uprears its stalwart form, 
As fearless of the lightning stroke. 

The tempest and the storm. 

If these their grandeur aught have lost 

Through time's unfeeling task, 
How great to us and dear the cost 

Now, all that we can ask. 

Where once the lordly savage trod 

And laws were his commands 
Are built up temples to the god 

Of diverse Christian bands. 

Still may the spirit of the storm. 

The tempest and the breeze, 
Adored by man in vaguest form. 

Protect Nacogdoches. 

Still may the streams in beauty flow 

Unruffled by rude storms ; 
Thy skies assume their former glow, 

Thy flowers their brightest forms. 

And have I clothed thy skies too bright, 
Nor decked thy fair ones even ? 



130 OUR PUMPKIN VINE 

The first a poet's sacred right, 
The last to be forgiven. 

Fair reader, dost thou pitiless weep 

That I've iingallaiit acted. 
Suppress the tear, go calmly sleep 

While thy poet goes distracted. 

And should I strike my harp again. 

Thou fair ones be my song ; 
While Texas, through its broad domain, 

Shall the wild note prolong. 

HOUSTON. 

And shall I cease my humble lays, 
Nor strike one note to Houston's praise ; 
And shall I not his praises sing, 
And roses from the wild-wood bring, 
And crown him as he should be crowned ? 
Him so honored and renowned. 

Who, the while our infant State, 

So seemingly a child of fate. 

Fast sinking 'neath a f oeman's weight ; 

Came nobly forward to the aid 

And rescue of the Lone Star made. 

And shall I point thee to the wave, 
Where sleeps the coward and the brave, 
The mound of earth and sculptured grave. 
Where San Jacinto — stream of pride — 
Fast rolling to the ocean's tide, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 131 

To Bayou Buffalo, its bride. 
A marriage feast the soil around, 
A feast of death — oh, how profound 
Was San Jacinto's battle-ground. 

Will tell the how with sabre bright 

Put thrice two hundred men to flight ; 

The nuptial ceremony brief, 

The lordling foemen came to grief, 

While fetters bound their Greaser chief. 

A retributive justice, slow 

For vengeance seeks a timely blow, 

Whose battle cry—*' The Alamo ! " 

Brave Houston led this fearless band 
To victory, o'er minions clanned ; 
While other braves, himself beside, 
Tom Kusk, our glory and our pride ; 
Some conquered liberty and died. 
We claim them all, though song depart. 
While motionless, the hand of art 
To statutes rear — they, breathing, start 
Pulsation in each freeman's heart. 

While Texas sits a queen to be — 
A queen by right of empire, she, 
Of equal rights, in simple fee, 
To air we breathe, and water free — 
Civil, and religious liberty. 

Thy glories shall corrode nor rust 
While marble crumbles into dust ; 
Undying fame, how vainly ape, 



132 OUK PUMPKIN VINE. 

Why torture marble into shape. 
A-bit ''ng f7me, than bronzes higher, 
To perish when the arts expire. 



FAME. 

What is greatness but a name ? 
Earthly in honors, great in shame ; 
Great in infamy — the same 
Great in death — and such is Fame. 

True fame is of celestial birth — 

To seemingly, so not of earth. 

Whose starting point earth's surface round ; 

True fame goes up, to glory crowned — 

False, to regions below the ground, 

To crawling doomed, and ever found 

Crawling downward in its bloom, 

Ever downward to its doom, 

Perdition to dishonored tomb. 

A home so fitted for the knave ; 
A home so homeless for the brave ; 
So cheerless for the soulless slave ; 
For fame so false, a timeless grave. 

Weakness, thy strength, and fame, begin, 
A-rearing Saints with souls within, 
To brighter crowns, than earthly, win. 
The better known for lack of sin. 
Unsullied by earths' bartering. 
A fame like this is fame indeed. 



OUR rUMPKIN' TINE. 133 

An antidote for moral greed, 
Where virtue has no cause to plead. 

Labor is fame, let us parade 
Labor of every form and grade, 
The artisan that pHes his trade, 
And victors of the plow and spade. 

Fame is a myth, the proud one's goal, 
Over our fevered brows to roll — 
Our vanities, how vain, control, 
Our human weakness of soul. 

All fames are honored bv a class. 
For human greatness, Fame, alas ! 
Dark spots obscure its moral glass, 
The sequel comes with time, remote, 
Whose rajless spot — a guileless mote. 

Whose milk is sour, no rennet drop, 

To fermentation's process stop. 

No rising cream upon its top. 

A mass of undigested sputter, 

Whose milk is neither cream nor butter. 

Of undigested clabber, but — 

The milk within its cocoanut. 

Impertinence, thv fame, a truce 
With thee, for seemingly abuse, 
A finger nail thy pate to scratch, 
Or otherwise, thy nits would hatch ; 
Then, such a breed, the roving louse, 



X3i: OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

To build for it a cliicken house — 
Accouchment of a mountian mouse. 

"Vicissitudes of life, its spice, 

And pepper oft, the proverb splice, 

I never knew the use of lice. 

But fame for thee — stratching for me. 

Imported, doubtless, duty free, 

A-judging by the quantity. 

A mite of chaff at random blown, 
A monster to a pigmy grown, 
With others brains, and theirs alone, 
But for abuse, were never known. 

And such is fame — subdue thy fears, 

Thus ostentatious marble rear. 

Its pulseless crest ; suppress thy tears. 

Admixtures they of diverst class. 

The sun's bright rays of warmth, a mass 

Brought to a focus with a glass. 

Is heat intense, to fame, alas ! 

All culminating in an ass. 

And such is fame, an ocean drear 
"Whose surface, currentless with fear. 
Obscured by floating drift, or near. 
No moral guide a bark may steer. 

A maelstrom with a maelstrom's power, 
To swollow all, but not devour. 
To swollow all the floating drift. 
Disgorging with a monster's gift. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 135 

Uplieaving through another throat, 

And scattering to space remote, 

The ocean o'er, its waves upon, 

A desert drear — and glory gone. 

And such is Fame — time's looking-glass, 

Thyself to view — and let it pass. 

There is a fame that never dies, 
With Virtue's diadem the prize, 
Whose ladder reaches to the skies. 
Its rounds upon do never halt, 
A-brooding on a former fault, 
Or looking back for Sodom salt. 

If fearful lest you erring fall 

In climbing, never climb at all. 

Anticipate thy fearful thrall ; 

Of Fame, the wormwood and the gall. 

And downward to perdition crawl. 

False Fame, its ladder on, how slim — • 
A seedling graft on glory's limb, 
A cutting from perdition's trim, 
Fearing to climb where all is dim. 

Fame's ladders by expanding grow. 
Expanding as you upward go. 
With patience often very slow. 
Whose focus — the abyss below. 

Inverted, too, nor crawl erect. 
Thy way to view, its faults detect; 



136 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

If fractured rounds, tlie best select ; 
Fame's ladder may liave some defect. 

Whose culminating point, thy thrall, 
Perdition, and perdition's wall, 
And timeless doom, and even this 
Times cycles may a-reaching, miss. 

So serpent-like, down-trodden snake, 
With life and liberty at stake. 
Its last expiring effort make, 
A struggle for existence sake. 

With eye of fire, all in a blaze 
To catch one glimpse of glory's rays ; 
Of glory from the ladder's crown, 
A reach to guide in crawling down. 

So like an owl, with light at bay, 

Who cannot bear the morning gray. 

Much less the brilliant light of day ; 

A-banishing with drowsy lid 

The sunlight, to a corner hid. 

A-cherishing the absent sun, 

The darkness which his mischief done. 

Who cannot bear perdition down 
The morning's gray or evening's brown ; 
But darkness ever, glory's frown. 
Much less a ray from glory down. 

A chance there is for those that crawl 
Perdition down, outside its wall, 



OUR PUMrKiN VINE. 137 

That virtue, too, for succor call. 

A hope, indeed, so very— very vague, 

But seemingly, the lost, to x^lague. 

His bitter grief and wretchedness, ^ 
The chance perdition's doom to miss ; 
A hope forlorn, and only this, 
To glory's jeweled fingers miss. 

The centre, grasping every routed 
Where safety may be only found ; 
With hope, its upper round in view, 
May ever keep its balance true. 

A single hair's breadth is the cost— 
A single hair's breadth, you are lost. 
But all in vain, the die is cast. 
The dread alternative at last ; 
A wretch into perdition cast, 
The Eubicon of hope is past. 

If greedy never view the ground 
For earthly fame, corruption's hound, 
But upward with a single bound, 
Bo positive thy grip is sound. 
And grasp thee for a higher round ; 
Celestial dews and glory's drop. 
Eternity may reach its top. 

If overgrasping, miss, or no, 
Will ever fall a round below ; 
So ever the decree of fates 
That open not their brazen gates. 



138 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Fame's ladder on, to seldom trust, 
So bauble-like, a rainbow's crust 
So beautiful, and until burst 
To nothingness — a spanless rope 
Suspended by (the arch of hope), 
Down to a deathless tub of soap. 
As human greatness often must 
"With nothing real, even dust. 

Virtue, the vital spark of fame. 
The source, regardless whence it came. 
Ever to her, and all the same, 
Shall from the seeds of filth arise. 
With all the bubble's brilliant dyes, 
The rainbow arch of Paradise. 

Fame's ladder on, nor greedy sup. 
Like "cudded" brutes, both down and up, 
Eating suffice — (nor glutton make) 
For comfort, and the stomach's sake. 
For fame is thine, and thine at stake, 
In bread, that earthly angels bake, 
And glory in unleaven cake. 

For freely drink of pleasure's cup ; 
Be temperate thy passage up ; 
Some other brutes, besides of cud, 
So troubled with a rising flood. 
Be temperate, for fame is thine, 
And glory, too, the cause divine, 
With glory in fermented wine. 

Be temperate, and in all things, 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. I39 

Thus sayeth Paul to slaves and kings. 
His glory truth, truth undenied. 
Defensive armor, buckle tried , 
The great Apostle never lied ; 
Truth was the crime for which he died. 
And for which lives, but withal save 
The dust that fills a martyr's grave. 

If any his besetting sin 
A fervent zeal to sinners* win, 
A famous seal the paeon rolls 
Intemperate in saving souls. 

The great Apostle never plead 
To others' views or footsteps tread, 
Being the great essential head, 
Meaning precisely what he said 

SOCIETIES. 

False fame is ever on the wing 
To fan the brow of slave and king 
That holds a hand for every kiss. 
As guileless as the serpent's kiss. 
Societies will seldom miss. 

Harmless as cooing doves, for sake I 

Of charming Eve, — our mother's snake, 
Reverse the thing — the pow^r of love — ■ 
No Cupid here to arrows shove : 
Transform the serpent to the dove. 

Temperate, as ever, realms of space, 



140 OUE PUMPKIN VINE. 

Yast latitude, the throne of grace, 
The clove, bearing no serpent trace, 

Usurps the serpent's artful place. 
Formerly, manhood's disarmer 
Is really a serpent charmer. 

Nor to select a certain trait 
Of character, average weight. 
To even sugar-colored state. 
Common intelligence to grate. 

The real difference, I think,i 
Is in the kinds that eat and drink — 
Not that we over-eat or 'muff, 
But in the kind that eating stuff. 
As for myself, will take it small, 
The beverage, though, may appal. 
Fermented, like the great St. Paul. 

The future, in remote, may find 
Societies, , somewhat of kind 

Of total abstinence of mind. 
Teetotalers, if any such, 
That cannot think too loud or much. 

That cannot speak without the aid 
Of balances to have it weighed. 
That cannot do an action wrong 
Unless to write a simple song. 
That cannot even read their name 
Unless recorded great in fame. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Of perjury, perchance, afraid — 
To sign a pledge a mark is made. 
With luny ink the soulless fade. 
No mind to conscience if upbraid. 
A mark for lack of intellect 
And skill, the feather to direct. 

A splendid world of thought were this 
When vice and virtue freely kiss. 
For Mother Eve and nakedness. 
For charity sits wrecked-less. 

Who only knew, by Satan's aid, 

The use where for fig-leaves were made. 

That weaving homespun was a trade. 

Whether or not the robe too thin, 

A covering to shield her skin, 

And the unquestioned myth within. 

In fact but only Satan's tool, 
Transformed to wisdom from a fool, 
Giving us implements to ape, 
Judging their uses by their shape. 
Making of fools, abandoned plan, 
Yielding with privilege to man. 

Societies, I would suggest 

To strike the monster in the breast ; 

Societies, that owe no liege 

To face the foe and raise the siege. 

Am with thee in the cause, but lack 
Of striking foemen in the back. 



141 



142 OUR PUMPKIN VINE 

"Will follow tliee where virtue leads, 
And otherwise where mercy pleads. 
Thus bend my bow whoever bleeds, 
Famed Crocket-like, immortal dead, 
Be sure of right, and go ahead ! 

The time may come, God speed the rate. 
When temperance may take its mate — 
Unmixed Avith sugar-coated state. 
When we can take our whisky straight. 

Intemperance is not the use 
Of things, withal, but their abuse. 
No war on temperance to make 
But at the dove within the snake. 
And temperance for honor's sake. 
While temperance is virtue's child, 
Even her children may be spoiled. 

A temperance, which don't rebel, 
May be itself the infidel, 
And why at special vices hurled. 
The shafts of infamy unfurled. 
Why not include the vicious world ? 

The answer, logical, though grave. 
With virtue's mixture, vice is brave, 
Her shadow oft to virtue save. 
Vice, the victim ; fame, the slave. 

While vice our nature's part may hit. 
Its surface only scathing slit, 
Unconquered, may the while submit. 
We vainly try to conquer it. 



OUR PUMPKIN YINE. 143 

While virtue holds a fearful dirk, 
Eeform ourselves where fame niay lurk, 
Ourselves reform, let others shirk, 
Keform ourselves, and done the work. 
Keform thyself, though not in vogue. 
Where thieves Tvitli honesty collogue, 
One shade-less shadow of a rogue. 
To value of the spoil enhance, 
Giving to honest men a chance. 

I know the ground I tread, but span 
Perchance somewhat more virtue than 
Alone the brave and valiant dare, 
To handle sharp-edged tools — with care. 



RELIGIOUS PHILOSOPHY. 

To God — the Father and the Son, 
God, the Spirit, blended-one, 
To Thee we kneel, regardless shows, 
Gaudy robes and furbelows. 

Eeligious nonsense, give us none. 
The Gospel truths to saintly shun. 
Its moral code to overrun. 
A certain portion to digest. 
Without a knowledge of the test. 
The residue more often best, 
By earth's divines oft revised. 
By earthly wisdom criticised. 
Seasoned with prejudice unchewed. 
More often from the stomach spewed, 



144 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Nor only by tlie longest prayer, 
Elastic faith and solmn airs, 
Gaudy robes and raffling Fairs, 
To climb the jasper heavenly stairs. 

Please give ns something that we need. 
Something of Christ within our creed, 
Somethine alike of Thee, indeed. 
Presumption's baubles, let them burst — • 
Their fancy frills and worldly lust — 
Their gilded banners, if I must, 
Their crimson banners trail the dust. 

Christ wore no frills or tinseled lace. 
No fitting dress for sovereign grace ; 
A girdle, mainly made of leather, 

To keep his homespun clothes together, 
His undress, making more complete. 
No sandals for his naked feet. 

No jewel set or finger rings, 

The gifts of emperors and kings ; 

No royal couch or pillowed bed. 

Nor even place to lay his head ; 

No crown, unless that grace adorns — 

A crown of withered leaves and thorns. 

And shall we follow Christ — the van, 
The leader ; or the leader's clan — 
Will follow him, so lowly, sad. 
So humble, and so coarsely clad, 
With tidings that made angels glad ; 



OUR PUMI'KIN VINE. 145 

"Will follow liim while birds a-nest, 
Or foxes holes, to quiet rest. 

By work alone to make repairs, 
By grace alone ascend the stairs. 
With faith alone to give iis strength. 
And patience for our journey's length. 

Nor kneel to saints thy smiles to win, 
To mitred clowns, or graded kin, 
More of the leopard than the skin. 
Vile as the devotee within, 
To thee alone to pardon sin. 

This is my prayer and only creed ; 
To thee for strength in time of need, 
So often need very much, 
Thy garments' hem to only touch. 

Thy garments' hem, foregiveness ever — 
Thy garments' hem, to touch, or never — ■ 
Thy garments' hem, its sovereign grace, 
My cloven rock and resting place. 
Thy garments' hem, nor mortals even. 
Or blasted are my hopes of heaven. 



MOEAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Good and evil are blessings lent 
To mortals, to be cautious spent, 
In usefulness, otherwise bent 
To the conditions of the rent. 



^^Q OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

So money like, when loaned in gold, 
Looking for principal and fold, 
For action, prudently and even. 
Proportioned to their talents given. 
For action, how, for good or evil. 
For interest, npright or level, 
In dealing with the flesh and devil. 

As currency, in part alloy. 

Not for the simple to decoy, 

For building up, not to destroy. 

The mixture, wisdom, power and strength ; 

Or otherwise, a shadow's length. 

Though oftentimes is fractured, slit, 
Whereon the moral world has split, 
The fractured parts to seldom fit. 
More oftenly by compromise, 
Just where the moral ulcer lies. 

Religion, too, a moral guide. 
Its fractured parts alloy-allied, 
Often too much for social pride, 
A hobby-horse for craft to ride. 

Through all creation's works we meet 
Its fractured parts, yet how complete ! 
As if to wisdom's god compete. 
How wonderful to through them range. 
Our actions still unconquered, strange — 
A God of all and nature till 
Conquered that monster, angel still, 
That high-bred monster — human will. 



/ . ^ OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 147 

Both arc blessings in tlieir place, 
Otherwise, there were no race — 
Nothing for positive so stout, 
Or social friends with social gout, 
And negative to fight about. 

Else no reciprocant of grace ; 
No victor in our moral race ; 
No danger of a social blighting ; 
While others do the social fighting. 

Regardless music, rent must come ; 
Regardless of the end, we drum ; 
No mercy here for favored some ; 
Regardless of its snares alone, 
Or straps that give the music tone. 

Regardless of the drummer's tricks, 
The drummer, or the drummer's licks, 
Just where the good or evil sticks. 
Regardless of the kind of drum, 
The music or the music's hum. 
The principal and rent must come. 

Be guarded that your music, it . 

Is music, to your contract fit ; 
Music to fill the fractured split, ' 

Such music as your master — lender, 
Accepts as good and legal tender. 

Cannot explain these matters — leason — 
So intricate, but for a season. 
Simply because of finite reason. 



148 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Here virtue takes tlie sovereign's place, 
With misery blended in a chase ; 
Unsoiled by crime, queenly arrayed 
In unpolluted robes, a maid. 
Divinity, the victor's grace, — 
A-glowing in her artless face, 
Has conquered evil in the race. 

Omnipresent good and ill — 

Vice in our actions showing still — 

Goodness 'gainst evil's grinding-mill, 

The heart's emotions ditling till 

Aroused to action by the will. 

The fountain whence to cure and kill. 

Both are blessings in a wood — 
Are blessings wiien Avell understood — ■ 
Are blessings both, but in disguise, 
So seldom sanctioned by the wise ; 
So pertinent as nature's tools — 
Transforming Avise men into fools. 

Goodness is positive and strength — 
Evil is negative and length — 
Darkness is but the absent sun — 
Light but the real present one — 

Effect the one — the other cause — 
Eesult of nature's sovereign laws. 

The passions both behest of grace 
To never fill the sovereign's place ; 
Apparent truth we cannot smother, 
The one is absence of the other. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 149 

However sophistry may twist, 
Without the one but to assist 
The other, one coukl not exist. 
Light and shade combined are scrolls, 
And ever distant as the poles. 

God form'd our souls with Tvdsdom seal'd, 
A vacuum as yet unfill'd 

With brains our own, my goose-quill brothers, 
Perchance our own, more often others. 

Will set its slave, action, at work. 
Action its slave's the pupious lurk. 
Aroused, these slaves, the human breast, 
Impelled to action, never rest. 
The mandate, until the will gave, 
Marks on the brow of each — my slave. 

Slaves to ourselves and slaves to others ; 
Slaves to our cousins and step-mothers. 
Reciprocally to seldom aid us. 
The first to spurn and to upbraid us ; 
The slaves of slaves to God who made us. 

Of our free wills some doubt as yet. 
Free in our choice, but how to get 
These little guns' emotions lower ; 
The big guns ever side with power. 

A power there is, controls our will ; 
Of art in spite of human skill. 
Our bows we bend a mark to fit. 
And arrows to so hurled with wit, 
The mark how seldom ever hit. 



150 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

The grapes may liang in luscious locks, 
While wisdom round the vintage flocks, 
A-gathering that wisdom mocks 
As yet too high for any fox. 

The streamlet flowing through the glade, 
In nature's loveliness carried, 
Apparently to doubtful aid, 
We find it far too deep to wade. 

The honey bee a-gathering. 
Its floral sweets a-harvesting. 
For future use or nature's king. 
A robber, but to rob no more. 
With lashes on his back a score ; 
Listen, I hear the victor's roar. 

Of mother earth can nothing take. 
Unless with trouble bargain make ; 
And trouble it for bargain's sake. 
To take by force is troubled will. 
By peaceful means some trouble still. 
'Tis trouble ever while we weep, 
Forgetfulness may trouble leap, 
Forgetfulness while wrapped in sleep. 

These mysteries where wisdom doubts 
And ignorance for wisdom shouts. 
Are children yet a-wearing clouts. 
We little know, yet wisdom spurn. 
And have that little yet to learn. 
The more we know, let's wisdom bless. 
The more we know we know the less. 



OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 151 

The liuman will chisels may hit, 
Bronzes crumble, marbles split. 
Erect who may statues to it, 
Statues to my vision flit, 
Long as the poles, broad as the sea, 
That ever was and is to be. 
Whose statue is Eternity. 

Nature with its dormant forces, 
Koused to action, but enforces ; 
Fights its battles with resources ; 
Disorder order to promote, 
Being both bane and antidotes. 

The physical, the last resort. 
When moral forces cannot sort. 
Their moral strains and only fort, 
Under duress to never swerve. 
The last to act kept in reserve. 
The moral forces to preserve. 

Dictatorship of power a lease, 

AVhose sphere alone to conquer peace. 

Bather an arbiter its sphere, 

With justice, but not too severe. 

And mercy blended very near,, 

To cause or wipe away a tear. ; 

The positive with ample fist. 
Together when cannot twist, 
The physical may not resist. 
The positive has run its length, 
The physical assumes its strength. 



152 OUR PUMPKIN VINE. 

Tlie tempest renovates our care, 
Pregnant with tidings of despair, 
The pestilence a bane of need, 
A check upon remorseless greed, 
Granting the living lips to feed. 
A cure exists in every strain, 
In every loss, in every gain, 
An antidote in every pain. 

"While death, onr bane, a boon doth give, 
Its antidote, the favored live, 
With ample space and open land. 
This cruel seeming wisdom planned. 
The seeming favored on to stand. 

Death thins the forest in his rage, 
Regardless undergrowth or age. 
The simple or majestic sage; 
Or otherwise let science hush. 
And wisdom into marble blush, 
A perfect mass of underbrush. 

While good and evil may compete. 
In turn each conquer or defeat, 
The grand result, oh ! how complete ! 
Mistaken, oft, cannot agre, 
What altitude to give a tree. 

A question in regard to height. 

That I am wrong and you are right. 

Mistake that science never made. 

Obtaining altitude by shade. 

Whose height is truth, the sceptic's doubt, 

The question is to get it out. 

To wrangle, often fight about, 



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